


Heart on a Trigger

by tastewithouttalent



Series: Coefficients [1]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!, Psycho-Pass
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Blow Jobs, Bombs, Broken Bones, Bruises, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Depression, Developing Relationship, Escape, Guns, Hand Jobs, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Insomnia, Knives, Love Confessions, M/M, Making Out, Male Friendship, Needles, Scars, Sexual Tension, Smoking, Stitches, Topping from the Bottom, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-20
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-04-22 22:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 40
Words: 68,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4852148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'This is the new addition to our department, Inspector Yamamoto Takeshi.'" When baseball doesn't work out, Yamamoto joins the Public Safety Bureau as an Inspector and becomes far more involved with his work than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impression

“You know,” Tsuna says as they step through the heavy black doors of the Public Safety Bureau. “I’m a little surprised to see you here, Yamamoto.”

Yamamoto’s in the middle of dragging at his tie -- it’s a necessity for at least his first day at his new job as an Inspector, but nothing he’s used to wearing. He’s just got his fingers under the knot to tug it loose by an inch when Tsuna speaks, and it’s only once he’s shaken himself into something closer to comfort that he backtracks to process the statement. “Oh?” He’s not offended; this is hardly the first time someone has expressed surprise at his recent choice of profession. “Ha, well, you ended up here, right?”

“I guess so.” Tsuna is still very much as Yamamoto remembers him from high school; pleasant, a little shy, prone to slouching in a way that creates even more of a height gap between them than already exists. The main difference is that he’s in a suit now instead of a school uniform; Yamamoto thinks it’s a good change, that it makes Tsuna look a little older than he is, a little more like he’s in charge. Of course, the nods from the men and women they pass in the halls may be helping with that impression too.

“But I didn’t have a whole lot of options,” Tsuna goes on as they round a corner to continue down a clean-lit hallway. The walls are half glass, the structure offering windows into the other departments; Yamamoto gazes through them as they carry on down the hallway, catches a glimpse of bright red hair, some scattered snatches of conversation, the motion of shuffling papers and gesturing hands. Everyone seems to be doing something different in every room he glances into, but the tone is the same, everywhere adrenaline is hanging like static in the air. Yamamoto’s heart beats faster just from the thrill of that, from the promise that everyone in the building is ready to leap into action at a moment’s notice.

He realizes Tsuna’s gone quiet again, that he’s glancing back like he’s waiting for a response. “Ah.” Yamamoto blinks, rewinds through his short-term memory to reconnect the lines of conversation. “I didn’t have  _all_  that many choices,” he admits, cracking a grin and reaching up to ruffle his hair before he remembers that he’s trying to look professional.

“You always had baseball,” Tsuna points out. “I thought for sure that’s what you’d end up doing.”

“Ah, well.” Yamamoto shrugs, laughs. “It’s one thing to play in high school or for fun.” He drops his hand from his neck, pushes back the edge of his jacket so he can fit his hand into his pocket. “Guess I just wanted something where I could make a difference.”

Tsuna doesn’t even glance to see Yamamoto’s expression. “I’m glad you’re here, anyway,” he says as they come up on another row of windows. The room inside is only half-full, more still than many of those they’ve passed; when Tsuna reaches for the handle Yamamoto realizes why. “We can always do with more Inspectors.” The door pushes open and Tsuna looks back, flashes the sincere warmth of the smile Yamamoto remembers from childhood. “It’ll be great to see more of you, too.”

It’s weird to watch Tsuna step into the room. His shoulders straighten, his steps slow; by the time Yamamoto has followed him through the doorway his suit is fitting better across his shoulders, the difference in their height far less noticeable. When he speaks even his voice is lower, steadier and calm as if his usual nervous cadence never existed at all.

“Everyone.” Five heads come up, attention focusing in on Tsuna in a way that would have sent him stuttering into incoherence when he was younger. Now he barely seems to react, just continues speaking while Yamamoto considers the array of faces in front of them. “This is the new addition to our department, Inspector Yamamoto Takeshi.” Yamamoto fishes his hand back out of his pocket, offers a wave and a grin. He gets an answering salute from the Inspector standing in the corner, a man with close-cropped hair and a bandage over the bridge of his nose; the rest of the room appears completely unresponsive, or perhaps unimpressed, except for an Enforcer near the back. He offers a glare in answer to Yamamoto’s smile, his frown creasing into a scowl as Yamamoto catches his gaze. His eyes are very green, striking in combination with the pale silver of the hair he has pulled back into a short ponytail. Yamamoto keeps watching him, even when the Enforcer looks away to reach for a box of cigarettes alongside his keyboard; it’s not until Tsuna says his name that he jerks his attention back to introductions.

“That’s Sasagawa Ryohei,” Tsuna says, gesturing towards the Inspector against the wall. “Hibari Kyoya.” No reaction from the Enforcer thus indicated; after glancing up upon their entrance he looked back to his computer screen and, as far as Yamamoto can tell, hasn’t looked up since. “Rokudo Mukuro,” a pair of mismatched eyes, a lopsided smirk to match an uncaring slouch, “and Chrome Dokuro,” and she’s hardly looking up at all, has her shoulders hunched like she’s trying to protect herself from some impending blow. Mukuro leans in to say something to her as Yamamoto watches, touches his hand to her shoulder, and she tips in towards him as if his touch is a magnet drawing her nearer.

“And Gokudera Hayato.” When Yamamoto looks back to the green-eyed man in the corner he’s being stared at again, the other’s scowl this time accentuated by an exhale of smoke from the newly-lit cigarette in his fingers. “You’re right across the desk from him, in the empty seat,” Tsuna continues, gesturing towards the space conspicuously absent of any of the paraphernalia littering the other’s desks.

Yamamoto takes another look around the room. Chrome is straightening again, Mukuro tipping back in his chair to resume his lounging consideration; other than Hibari, everyone is watching him, like they’re expecting a speech of some kind.

He leads off with a laugh, a little nervous and a little fast, and a smile to take the edge off. “Hi everyone,” he tries. “I’m Yamamoto Takeshi, like Tsuna said.”

“Chief Sawada.”

The growl is from the back corner, the sound delivered around the weight of a cigarette. Gokudera’s really glaring now, his arms crossed in front of him like a wall. The light catches off his hair, transforms it into white gold, and Yamamoto’s heart skids out on a beat and tries to turn itself over in his chest.

“Ah,” he says, because he can’t form better words in his throat. “Sorry?”

“Chief Sawada,” Gokudera repeats. Yamamoto can hear the grit of his teeth behind the words. “Show some respect, newbie.”

“Gokudera!” Tsuna protests, sounding appalled, but Yamamoto’s laughing, the tension in his chest spilling itself into adrenaline at his lips.

“Right, right!” He catches back the laughter, turns it into just a grin instead. “Gotta be professional at work, right?”

“Don’t mind him,” Tsuna says, low and too quiet for the words to carry. He’s flushing crimson, like he always does when someone praises him. “Gokudera’s just...”

“It’s fine,” Yamamoto insists, looks back over to catch Gokudera’s glare. He dips his head in a nod, completely incapable of restraining the smile across his mouth. “Thank you!”

All he gets in response is a growl, and then Tsuna’s apologizing again, mumbling “Sorry about him” and gesturing towards the open seat once more. Yamamoto takes the unspoken offer, maneuvers around Chrome and Mukuro with a nod and offers another smile to Ryohei before he sits down. The desk is completely bare except for the monitor and the keyboard for him to use, and the chair’s too low; he has to fumble underneath it before he finds the right lever to raise it by the inches he needs.

There’s a  _tsk_  from the other side of the desk, a note of disapproval; when Yamamoto looks up from fiddling with the chair Gokudera’s scowling at him from the other side of the desk. His eyes are brighter this close, the pout of his lips around the cigarette a soft curve Yamamoto couldn’t see from the other side of the room. The air smells like smoke.

Gokudera jerks his chin at Yamamoto’s collar, at the loose knot of his tie. “Don’t you know how to dress yourself?”

Yamamoto’s hand comes up of its own accord, catches at the loop of fabric. “Oh.” His laugh forms itself into the shape of an apology, his fingers curl against the dark silk. “Ha, yeah, I’m not used to dressing up for work. Never had to for baseball, you know?”

Gokudera snorts, rolls his eyes as he turns back to his computer. “ _Baseball_.” He makes the word an insult, loads it with all manner of unspoken judgment like those few syllables tell him everything he needs to know about Yamamoto. “Great. Another idiot to deal with.”

Yamamoto is pretty sure he should be offended by the dismissal in Gokudera’s tone, by the implication that he’s well beneath notice. But he’s still breathing too hard, his heart is still skipping over alternate beats, and it’s not until Gokudera looks back at him and snaps “What are you staring at?” with fire behind his eyes that Yamamoto remembers to look away and focus on his own monitor instead of on the curl of smoke rising from Gokudera’s exhales.


	2. Gift

It takes an hour of lying awake in bed before Yamamoto gives up on going back to sleep.

He had hoped that staying up well past his usual bedtime would break him loose of the habits of early-morning practice formed because the best way to avoid the summer heat is to start training before dawn. But even after watching his clock click over to the new day before falling asleep he’s awake before five, lying in bed staring sleepless at the gentle glow of his clock and accepting that he won’t get any more rest before work. It’s hours earlier than he intends when he finally sits up to swing his legs out of bed, turn the light on, and go in search of a shower and clothes and breakfast, more or less in that order.

The sun hasn’t yet crested the horizon when Yamamoto locks the door to his apartment behind him and heads in the direction of the Bureau. The streets are empty except for a few cleaning droids and the scanners blinking silently from the edges of the buildings; Yamamoto barely sees them, loses himself instead in the rhythm of his shoes against the pavement and the pre-dawn brisk of the air. The cold feels good with the unfamiliar weight of his suit to insulate his skin, with the breeze kissing chill at the open collar of his shirt, and by the time the doors to the Bureau entrance slide silently open for him Yamamoto feels flushed and glowing warm with radiant response to the cold.

The Bureau is as silent as the streets. It’s not yet seven; it seems the ‘come in at eight’ recommendation Tsuna gave him yesterday applies to all the departments, not just theirs. There are a few people around -- there’s a shout from down the hallway with the echo from the exclamation loud enough to make up for the silence, someone with a shock of red hair curled up on a couch under a jacket like he didn’t make it to home before collapsing into sleep. But otherwise the rooms are empty, reports and keyboards alike awaiting their owners, and the tension of unfamiliarity in Yamamoto’s shoulders eases with every step, his awareness spreading out into the solitude of the hallways and converting them into comfort.

He finds his new office without much trouble. He’s always been good with directions, and the departments are similar in architecture but different enough in layout that he knows the room he wants when he sees it. There’s the desk built into the corner for Ryohei to stand at, the couch with Hibari’s jacket tossed over it like a reservation, Yamamoto’s own space still empty of the earmarks of possession.

And there’s Gokudera, slouching in his seat in the corner of the room and curtained in a haze of smoke.

Yamamoto stalls in the doorway, the tingle of surprised adrenaline pleasant and as warm as the glow across his skin from the walk. “Gokudera?” He steps forward as the other glances up, the unconscious relaxation in his expression drawing into the taut lines of a scowl as Yamamoto approaches. “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying the quiet,” Gokudera says. He’s not looking away as Yamamoto approaches; it’s a little like walking voluntarily towards a hurricane to approach the spark in his eyes. “What the fuck are  _you_  doing here?”

“Ha,” Yamamoto laughs, maneuvering around the desk so he can make his way to his own section of the room. Gokudera’s gaze trails him, his eyebrows drawing low over the bright of his eyes. “Woke up early.” He drops to his chair without looking, tips far enough back that the frame squeaks protest and Gokudera winces at the sound. “I used to get up at five for morning practice.” He shrugs, offers Gokudera a smile which isn’t returned. “Guess I haven’t broken myself of the habit.”

“Hope you do soon,” Gokudera mumbles, low enough that Yamamoto guesses he’s supposed to pretend he didn’t hear. Gokudera looks back at his computer, but he’s still frowning, irritation writ clear in his expression.

“What about you?” Yamamoto attempts. Gokudera’s got a cigarette between his lips, has another pair stubbed down to the filter in the ashtray to his right; everything about him, from the slope of his shoulders to the creases of his jacket, says he’s been here far longer than just a few minutes.

The question gets Yamamoto another moment of attention, green eyes narrowing in suspicion as if to pry some hidden meaning out of the question. Yamamoto doesn’t say anything, just holds Gokudera’s gaze with as little threat in his expression as he can muster; there’s a long moment, a pause that goes taut with anticipation, and finally Gokudera huffs and looks back at his computer screen.

“Insomnia,” he says to the monitor. His fingers come up, brace against the cigarette at his mouth; Yamamoto watches the way his lips curve against it, stares at the ember-bright glow at the end as Gokudera inhales. “I don’t sleep much.”

“Sorry,” Yamamoto says without looking away from the glow of the cigarette.

It fades to black and Gokudera sighs out a lungful of smoke to haze the air between them. When Yamamoto looks back up Gokudera’s eyeing him again, his mouth twisted like he’s looking at something distasteful.

“It’s not your fucking fault,” he says, the words snappish enough to put a period on the conversation even Yamamoto can’t breach. This time when he looks back at the screen he reaches for the keyboard too and starts to type something with a rhythm so rushed Yamamoto can hear each keystroke as it registers.

Yamamoto follows Gokudera’s example, turns his own computer on so he can idle away his time fiddling with the icons on the desktop and some of the training documentation Tsuna downloaded for him yesterday. He tries to read one, switches to another when the first doesn’t hold his attention, but the smoke in the air is making him jittery and the pattern of Gokudera’s typing keeps drawing his gaze down to the way the other’s fingers are working over the keys. Gokudera’s wearing rings, heavy silver and black ones on almost every finger; it’s an affectation Yamamoto didn’t expect to see in the Bureau, a touch of individuality to counteract the plain black suit across the other’s shoulders.

Yamamoto gets up after a half hour of fruitless attempts at reading to make another loop of the Bureau. It’s a little louder now, a few more early risers trickling into the space; Yamamoto glances into the offices as he goes by, looks at the clusters of jackets grouping together in the spaces. Most are Enforcers; he only sees one Inspector, the redhead from before but awake now, ruffling his hair and grimacing at a stack of papers in front of him. Yamamoto doesn’t pause to speak to him, or to any of his other new coworkers; he’s not sure of protocol, yet, and most of the others look half-awake at best and early-morning irritable at worst. He only stops when he finds a vending machine, and then only long enough to offer his card to the reader in exchange for the warm metal of a coffee can against his palm.

Gokudera’s right where he left him when Yamamoto returns. The shadow over his forehead has passed, his features have smoothed back into calm as he works on whatever it is he’s doing. He’s still got the cigarette in his mouth but the trail of smoke rising from it is gone; instead he’s got his hand up in his hair, twisting at the silver locks at the back of his neck in a way Yamamoto is sure is unconscious.

Yamamoto maneuvers across the room, fitting around the empty desks to return to his own. Gokudera doesn’t look at him, doesn’t offer any kind of greeting; he doesn’t react at all until Yamamoto braces a hand flat against his own desk so he can lean over and offer the warmth of the coffee can.

“Here,” he says, while Gokudera is blinking himself back into focus on reality and staring at the can like he’s never seen it before. “Do you drink coffee?”

The glare Yamamoto gets in return would be a more appropriate response to a punch than to a gift. “What the fuck is this?”

Yamamoto offers a laugh, twists the can idly between his fingers. “I found a vending machine. Thought you might want some caffeine for the day.”

“Fuck off, baseball idiot,” Gokudera snarls, looking away to scowl at his monitor again. “I don’t want your stupid coffee, drink it yourself.”

“I don’t like black coffee,” Yamamoto admits, still holding the can out. “It’ll just go to waste if you don’t want it.”

“Why would I want your stupid welcoming gift?” Gokudera looks back up again, his lips tight in a frown of what Yamamoto can recognize as building irritation. “You’ve been here for half a fucking day and you wanna pretend that we’re best friends now?”

“No, I--”

“We’re not  _friends_ ,” Gokudera growls, reaching up to snatch the can from Yamamoto’s hand. One of his rings catches at Yamamoto’s wrist as he moves, leaving a hot burst of hurt in its wake. “If you wanted friends you should have stayed on your fucking baseball team.” His fingers tighten on the can; for a moment Yamamoto thinks he might throw it at him, but then the tension gives way and Gokudera reaches out to slam the can down on the corner of his desk instead.

“You work with  _criminals_  now,” he snaps. “We’re different than you with your happy life and your  _choices_.”

Yamamoto’s chest is aching, something too big to fit inside his ribcage pressing hot against his lungs. His wrist throbs hurt. “Latent criminals, it’s not the same as actually--”

“It’s  _exactly_  the same,” Gokudera spits. “Sit down and shut up, if you’re too fucking dumb to keep out of trouble yourself.”

Yamamoto does. It’s hard to relax against the chair; his whole body is taut with adrenaline, with unpleasant stress tight along his spine and shaking in his hands. His wrist is bleeding, when he looks at it, the skin torn into a sluggish spill of blood that stains the very edge of his white shirt cuff. He licks at the cut, watches the red rise back to the surface before he gets up to find a bandage to save his shirt from any more of a stain than it already has.

The can of coffee is open when Yamamoto comes back in, Gokudera’s extinguished cigarette shed in favor of taking intermittent sips of the liquid. Gokudera glances at him as he sits down, his eyes bright and his mouth set into a preemptive scowl before Yamamoto has even decided to speak.

“Don’t try to make nice with me,” he says, his voice low and grating rough with sincerity. “I don’t want your friendship and I don’t want your charity.”

Yamamoto doesn’t say anything. He offers a smile instead of words, dipping his head into the shape of what could be taken as an apology and watching Gokudera’s face until the other growls and looks away at his computer screen.

It takes Yamamoto a little longer to stop staring.


	3. Impulse

“I’m sorry about this,” Tsuna says, again, starting another cycle of the refrain he began before they even left the office. “I know it’s only your first week, I had hoped to give you more time to adjust but--”

“It’s fine,” Yamamoto says, flashing a smile that doesn’t seem to offer much comfort to Tsuna. “It’s exciting, I’ve been looking forward to going out on assignment.”

“Shut  _up_ , idiot.” There’s a flash of green eyes, a glare striking with pinpoint precision at Yamamoto alone. “Do you not understand the idea of  _stealth_?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Yamamoto smiles, and obediently falls silent even as Gokudera picks up a hushed conversation with Tsuna as if to undermine his own statement. In the dim lighting the silver of his hair glows like moonlight, catches itself into something metal-bright and impossible to look away from. Yamamoto watches that instead of the surroundings he’s supposed to be scanning, too caught by the shift of silver hair and the curve of tense lips to keep his mind where it ought to be.

It’s hard enough to focus his attention anyway. In his head Yamamoto had vague ideas of tense combat, showdowns between criminals and the glow of the Dominators he’s not yet used except in a few too-brief training sessions, but in practice going out on a mission has involved a lot more slipping through the shadows of a poorly lit building than anything else. Their target this time was picked up automatically on the building scanner, which means there’s no hostage and no one in danger as yet; Yamamoto wonders in the back of his mind if the man they’re looking for even knows his Coefficient has increased, if he knows there’s a team from the Bureau approaching to take him into custody.

“Pay  _attention_ ,” Gokudera snaps, and Yamamoto blinks himself out of his momentary reverie and back to the present. They’ve paused their advance -- Tsuna’s gaze demonstrates the distant focus telltale of an update to his holographic map -- and Gokudera’s taking advantage of the delay to glare at Yamamoto. “I don’t expect you to be useful but you could at least not be a burden.”

“I won’t be,” Yamamoto says in the softest whisper he can manage. “The Dominators aren’t that hard to use, right? Just point and shoot.”

Gokudera’s eyeroll is so pronounced it’s clear even in the shadow-dim lighting. “Right,” he drawls, the word dripping sarcasm. “Just point and shoot at whatever you like. You might end up Paralyzing the rest of the team, but  _sure_.”

“I’m not going to point it at  _you_ ,” Yamamoto says, the idea turning into an incredulous laugh in his throat.

This does not seem to offer comfort to Gokudera. His eyes narrow, his frown deepens, and when he steps in it’s to shove himself into Yamamoto’s personal space, to offer what extra intimidation up-close glaring can provide over the more distant variety.

“It’s not something to fucking  _laugh_  about,” he hisses. “Your only  _point_  as an Inspector is to be close enough to stop Enforcers if they get out of line.” His hand comes out, shoves hard enough at Yamamoto’s shoulder that the other loses his footing and goes stumbling backwards a half-step. “What would you do if I tried to escape, or if my Coefficient jumped?” He’s close, now, so near Yamamoto can smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his shirt. His eyes are the brighter for the anger behind them. “You really  _are_  an idiot.”

“ _Gokudera_ ,” Tsuna hisses, an undertone carrying a shrill edge that snaps Gokudera’s head around in instant attention. Yamamoto is quick to imitate the movement, delayed only by the brief breathless moment of watching Gokudera’s hair catch at his collar to bare the curve of his neck for a moment. “Yamamoto, we’re going.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto says, and “Of course, Chief,” Gokudera agrees, and they move down the hallway once more, Gokudera taking point again as he downloads the new map. Tsuna falls into step with Yamamoto, casting glances that seem to offer unnecessary apology for Gokudera’s prickliness, but they’re too close now for speech, adrenaline thudding in Yamamoto’s heart as if it’s collecting from the shadows in the air around them. It’s still near-silent, the building absent any sound but the breathless-quiet of their shoes scuffing against the floor, until even when Gokudera draws to a halt in front of a door and looks back at the two of them there’s no trace of sound from the other side. There’s a moment of hesitation, green eyes skimming past Yamamoto like he’s not there before focusing on Tsuna; then Tsuna takes a breath, deep enough that Yamamoto can hear the air catching in his lungs, and nods sharp and quick.

Yamamoto doesn’t have time to be impressed with this display of decisiveness completely unlike the boy he knew in high school. That one motion is like a trigger being pulled, an impetus for a sudden flurry of motion: Gokudera kicks the door open, a pair of voices shout orders Yamamoto can’t parse for the tangle of words, and Yamamoto surges forward without thinking, carried by the tense expectation in his veins as surely as it used to carry him out onto the baseball diamond. But there are no cheers, this time, no swell of enthusiasm as the three of them tumble into the room; there’s just darkness, the shadows from the hall continued in kind inside, and movement, dark eyes in a pale face and shoulders hunching in on themselves.

“ _Put your hands up!_ ” Gokudera is shouting, and over him, projecting loud to be heard clearly, Tsuna: “We’re from the Public Safety Bureau on the report of an automatic scanner.” Gokudera edges to the left, fits the breadth of his shoulders and the steady aim of his Dominator between Tsuna and the target -- a young man, wide-eyed and sporting a dark bruise along his jawline. He looks different than in the picture they saw back in the office, more panicked and a little thinner, and far more human and frightened than the standard-issue identification photos ever manage to convey. There’s a breathless pause of stretching tension -- then Gokudera takes an audible breath, Tsuna’s shoulders loosen by a fraction, and Yamamoto thinks that everything is under control, that this will turn out to be easy after all. They’ll bring the target in for emergency therapy and medication, he’ll be rehabilitated, perhaps they can find the cause for his high Coefficient in the first place. Yamamoto can see bruises on more than just his face, now; even in the night-dark lighting they’re printed clearly on his wrist, just above the hands still clenched at his sides, and there’s a bandage over his cheek as if to hide a cut or a scratch.

“Kozato-san--” Tsuna starts, and then there’s a  _growl_ , a low feral note of fright, and Yamamoto is looking at Gokudera before he’s even processed that it is the other who has reacted.

“ _Get away from him_ ,” Gokudera snarls, steps in sideways and back until he’s forcing Tsuna to move away or be shoved by his shoulders. “Stay back, he’s spiking.”

Yamamoto doesn’t understand for a moment. Gokudera is growling, a low sustained note of threat, his teeth bared and eyes glowing, but Yamamoto can’t figure out  _why_ , when the target isn’t doing anything but hunching his shoulders and breathing harder. Then he processes what he’s seeing --  _glowing eyes_  -- and finally thinks to lift his Dominator and center the crosshairs on the target. There’s a burble of sound, a neutral electronic voice Yamamoto barely listens to, and then a pause, a heartbeat made tense by expectation.

Then the numbers overlaid on Yamamoto’s vision come clear, the digits well past the expected range, and there’s a heavy metallic  _thud_ , a click and shift in the Dominator’s weight as it reorients itself into Eliminator mode instead of Paralyzer.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera spits. “Chief, take cover.”

Yamamoto looks away from the display, the unfamiliar alignment of the Dominator in his hands dipping it down and off-target. Tsuna takes a stumbling step backwards, starts to say something: “Gokudera, wait--” And Gokudera is lifting his Dominator, his arms flexing to steady the weight as his eyes glow blue with the targeting system, his fingers tightening to brace the Dominator as he reaches for the trigger.

“ _Wait_ ,” Yamamoto blurts. His feet skid on the floor, his Dominator falls from his careless grip, and when he slams into Gokudera’s shoulder it’s before he’s had a chance to brace himself for the impact, while Gokudera is still moving to look at him in the first instinctive surprise. There’s fabric under Yamamoto’s hands, the resistance of a sharp-edged shoulderblade at his chest and an elbow at his stomach, and then they’re falling, crashing to the floor with an impact that blows all the air out of Yamamoto’s lungs in a rush of sound more akin to a shout than the coherent protest he intended. The Dominator skids sideways, slipping from a grip gone slack in the first shock of impact, and Yamamoto has a moment of relief that Gokudera didn’t shoot.

Then “ _Get the fuck off me_ ” and there’s a fist in his ribs, knuckles slamming into him so hard they blow the air from his lungs a second time and radiate pain all out into his body.

“ _Ah_ ,” Yamamoto gasps, more from a lack of ability to manage anything more coherent through the reflexive choking action of his lungs than from purpose. He fumbles for Gokudera’s arm, wrist, hand, anything, manages to break the second punch to land at his shoulder instead of his jaw, and then he’s got a narrow wrist under his fingers, his hold more desperate than secure. Gokudera’s hissing curses Yamamoto can barely hear, twisting to kick at Yamamoto’s shin with the toe of his boot, and Yamamoto’s breathing is breaking into gasps of pain more than a steady rhythm but he doesn’t move, doesn’t let Gokudera up because his Dominator is still in reach.

“Get  _off_  me,” Gokudera repeats. This time he brings his head up and slams his forehead into Yamamoto’s temple with enough force that Yamamoto’s vision blurs, his limbs go briefly heavy and unresponsive.

“Oh fuck,” he says into the weird mental haze, the sound echoing in his ears like it’s coming down a tunnel. Gokudera gets a knee free, shoves at Yamamoto’s shoulder, and Yamamoto falls sideways, blinking frantically at the shadows and willing them to clarify into comprehension. There’s a shout: “Gokudera,  _wait_ , it’s fine,” and an incoherent noise of irritation in response; then Yamamoto manages a proper inhale, blinks hard enough to clear the fog in his head, and everything snaps back into frantic realtime again.

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasps, pushing himself upright once more. He intends to get to his feet but his vision blurs, sweeps sideways like the world’s falling out from under him, and instead he has to pause, has to press his hands flat to the floor like he’s holding himself to the ground. But there’s no metallic  _click_ , no rushing sound of light ripping through air, and that’s good, Yamamoto’s sure, even before he can process the absence as the lack of a Dominator going off.

When he can clear his vision enough to make people out of the shapes in the darkness, everything is still. Tsuna has the target by the door, still alive and looking far steadier on his feet than Yamamoto feels he could manage in his place; some of the panicked tension is seeping out of his shoulders, the trapped-animal fright in his expression fading with each of Tsuna’s words. Yamamoto can’t hear the individual sounds, but the tone is enough, the soothing rhythm of comfort clear as much from Tsuna’s voice as from the careful smile he’s offering. Gokudera’s on his feet, too, clutching his reclaimed Dominator in both hands; the weapon’s reverted back to its original form, holds it even when Gokudera lifts it cautiously to aim at the young man tentatively returning Tsuna’s smile.

Gokudera looks over before he lowers his aim. His eyes are radiant, shining uncanny bright to match the striking color of his hair. Yamamoto’s chest goes tight, bruises aching in time with the pressure against his lungs, heart skidding on adrenaline that has nothing to do with the threat of danger, and when he breathes it comes out as a sigh trembling around the near-painful tension in his throat.

Gokudera stares at him for a moment, his expression drawing itself into stormcloud fury as the electronic light fades from his eyes. Yamamoto doesn’t look away, just keeps watching as Gokudera’s eyes narrow, as his chin dips down, as his lips form themselves around the curl of furious anger.

“ _Fuck you_ ,” he hisses, softly enough that it won’t carry to where Tsuna is murmuring comfort to the other. Yamamoto’s breathing stutters against the bruises of Gokudera’s knuckles on his ribs, and he doesn’t say anything at all.


	4. Games

By the end of the first hour of training, Yamamoto has forgotten about his bruises.

They’re still there, he knows; the tenderness against the side of his head is the worst of it, since it jars his balance unsteady and out-of-line if he moves too fast, but the dark-blossomed purple against his ribs aches dully through his warmups and the first round of his practice, offering protest every time he stretches too far through a swing. But as his muscles warm to familiar exertion the tension in his body gives way too, and somewhere in the midst of the rhythm Yamamoto forgets about his bruises, and forgets about the suit folded in the corner, and forgets even about Gokudera Hayato. His world narrows down to the texture of the shinai handle against his palms, the catch of the floor at his bare feet, and the arcs of movement that tug at his arms and sweep through his shoulders to curve his body into something that feels distantly like grace.

He has no idea when the door opens. It must give up a sound, but he’s not listening for it; his ears are occupied with the rhythmic rush of his breathing, effort catching his inhales louder and faster than usual, and he’s still focused on that, timing the slow-smooth sweeps of his motions by it when he pivots on a heel and sees that he has company.

“Ah,” he says, the first rush of surprise forming itself into an exclamation on his lips. It takes him a moment to collect himself, to draw his hyper-focused attention back into the shape of consciousness and to steady his feet into a more ordinary stance. It’s then that he feels the drag of speed under his breathing, then that the distant throb of bruises rises back to the forefront of his attention, until when he offers a smile to his audience he feels far more flushed with the heat of exercise than he did moments before. “Hey there, Gokudera.”

There is no answering smile. Gokudera just keeps glaring at him, standing just inside the doorway with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched forward. He’s dressed differently than usual, Yamamoto realizes, jeans and a white undershirt to go with a red shirt left open to hang off his shoulders. He looks thinner out of his usual suit, a little younger, maybe, and if possible more gratingly furious than he usually does in the department.

“What are you  _doing_?” he spits, his tone as red-raw angry as if he had walked in to find Yamamoto trespassing in his room rather than in the shared training space.

“Kendo,” Yamamoto says, holding up the bamboo sword as if this will somehow help explain this rather obvious fact. “I had some time off and wanted to practice.”

Gokudera huffs incoherent disapproval, steps away from the door; he moves sideways, sticking so close to the wall it looks like he’s trying to keep as much distance between himself and Yamamoto as possible. “Shouldn’t you still be recovering or something?”

Yamamoto’s hand comes up of it’s own accord, fingertips touching feather-light against the ache at the side of his head. He remembers green eyes the brighter for proximity and the furious rage in them, sharp elbows digging into his side, a fragile wrist under his fingers. “Ha, well. I was feeling stiff so I thought I’d work out some of my bruises here.” He doesn’t intend to turn to track Gokudera’s progress around the room; he just does, the trained elegance of his posture giving way entirely as he twists to blink at the other. “Did you want some space to train?”

“No,” Gokudera snaps with all the viciousness of denial under the word. “I was looking for some peace and quiet but obviously that’s not going to happen.”

Yamamoto laughs, aware even as it comes past his lips that it’s nervous, strained around the weird tension in his chest that comes with the sheen of light off Gokudera’s hair and the growling irritation in the other’s throat. “I’ll leave if you want.” His hand slides off his forehead, catches into his hair to ruffle against the back of his neck in an involuntary tell for the overfast beat of his heart. “I used to train on my own for baseball, I don’t mind--”

“Do you think this is a  _game_?” Gokudera snaps, so suddenly and so loud that Yamamoto jumps, the burble of his speech dying instantly in his throat. Gokudera’s turned away from the wall now, shoulders hunching in towards Yamamoto like he’s thinking about lunging at him, and Yamamoto can’t look away from the heat in his eyes or the intensity in his tight-clenched fists. “Just something to pick up since you got  _bored_  of stupid  _baseball_?”

“What?” Yamamoto says, too dizzy to pick up the logic under the other’s anger.

“ _You_ ,” Gokudera hisses, so low Yamamoto can feel the sound cut through him like a knife. “You had a  _life_ , you had  _choices_. You had your stupid baseball and your stupid training and your  _stupid fucking_  life, why the  _fuck_  did you come here?” His eyes are snapping like they’re alight, like there are fireworks going off under his skin, and Yamamoto can’t think to do anything at all but stare open-mouthed as Gokudera takes a step forward. “You come in with your dumb fucking smile and your stupid presents and then it’s not enough for  _you_  to be incompetent, you have to get in  _my_  way too.” He’s coming closer, near enough that he has to turn his chin up to hold Yamamoto’s gaze over the gap in their heights. His hands are white-knuckled tight; Yamamoto is half-expecting a punch to go along with the bite of Gokudera’s words, another dark imprint on his skin to match the one he already has.

“We are  _not_  friends,” Gokudera spits. “This is  _not_  a game. It’s your job to stay the  _fuck_  out of my way and let me do mine.” His hand comes out, fingers uncurling at the last moment to shove hard at Yamamoto’s shoulder; Yamamoto stumbles backwards, almost falling as his unsteady footing catches up with him. “What if you had gotten the Chief hurt? I’m supposed to  _protect_  him and you weren’t even letting me do  _that_.” Gokudera’s almost shouting, his eyes are pure fire, and Yamamoto’s head is spinning; he thinks he might be locking his knees, can’t think enough to shift his stance.

“Stay  _away_  from me,” Gokudera growls, low and as threatening as the rumble of a distant explosion. “Learn to do your own fucking job and stop getting in my way.”

Yamamoto can’t think. His skin is too hot, his heart beating too fast; there’s adrenaline pounding in his veins, catching and matching the languid pleasure of exertion, until when he opens his mouth and hears “I don’t,” he’s as surprised as Gokudera.

“ _What_?” Gokudera’s eyebrows draw together, his chin dipping down to collect shadows of irritation across his features. “You don’t  _what_?”

“I don’t think this is a game,” Yamamoto blurts.

There’s a single breathless pause, Gokudera staring at Yamamoto while Yamamoto tries and fails to catch his breath. He can see the tension in Gokudera’s forehead build, twisting out of anger and into confusion; then there’s a huff of breath, irritation given the form of an exhale, and Gokudera twists away to make for the door.

Yamamoto watches him leave, is still staring when Gokudera glances back over his shoulder for a moment as he pulls the door open. He doesn’t show any sign of acknowledging Yamamoto’s attention; there’s just a moment of eye contact, green eyes crackling electricity over the distance between them, and then he’s gone out the door and out of sight.


	5. Saved

Yamamoto is surprised by how quiet the cafeteria is.

He’s used to the wide-open room used by his old baseball team for meals, complete with white linoleum floors and the constant chatter of sound to fill the high arched ceilings overhead. The baseball cafeteria always smelled like rice, the steam of the food blending with the heat of dozens of bodies in a space that always seemed too small, the overall effect a little bit stifling and so familiar from years of exposure that Yamamoto is almost looking forward to revisiting it in the far less comfortable setting of the Bureau. But when he’s expecting white plastic he gets clean dark tile, when he’s expecting a cacophony of sound there’s just a faint murmur of speech, and the entire space is far more reminiscent of a restaurant than the industrial space he was expecting. It’s a lot easier to spot the pair of familiar faces at a table in the corner when there’s only a half-dozen groups scattered around the room in the first place, far easier to hear Tsuna calling “Yamamoto!” to match his waving arm. 

Yamamoto waves back, flashing a smile bright enough to encompass both Tsuna’s friendly gesture and Gokudera’s unwelcoming scowl from the other side of the table as he makes his way across the room to join them. Tsuna’s smiling as he comes around the table, has his head turned to fix Yamamoto with the whole of his attention in that way he does that makes the recipient feel like they’re the most important thing in the world, but when Yamamoto sits down it’s across the table that he’s looking, to catch and hold the dark glare Gokudera is fixing him with.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” Tsuna is saying. “Don’t you usually bring a lunch with you to work?”

“Huh?” Yamamoto drags his gaze away from the vicious bite of Gokudera’s eyes, forces himself into attention on what Tsuna is saying. “Oh. Ha, yeah, I just forgot to bring one with me this morning.”

Gokudera  _tsks_ , a faint note of judgment, but Yamamoto barely has time to notice the other looking down to frown at his lunch before Tsuna’s nervous laugh overrides the sound.

“I know how that goes. I tried to bring food with me at first, but I ended up forgetting it more times than I brought it.” Tsuna laughs again, ducks his head like he’s trying to hide behind his hair. “I’m terrible at remembering things.”

“That’s not true, Chief,” Gokudera growls. When Yamamoto looks back at him Gokudera’s attention is fixed on Tsuna, eyes wide with the intensity of his reassurance. “You have a lot on your mind. I’m sure your attention is far better spent elsewhere.”

Tsuna groans. “Don’t remind me.” He shakes his head, rolls his shoulders like he’s pushing off some burden, and when he looks back at up he looks like the boy Yamamoto used to know in spite of the insignia of the jacket around his shoulders. “Oh, by the way, I got some great news today!”

“Oh?” Yamamoto says, his words tangling together with Gokudera’s “What is it, Chief?”

Tsuna clears his throat. His eyes are bright, his mouth tight around a smile he’s only half-repressing. “It’s about Enma.” He blinks, shakes his head with a self-deprecating laugh. “Sorry. Kozato-san, I guess is the name you’d know.”

Yamamoto’s forehead creases. The name is familiar in a sort of vague way; he can’t place it right away, is still reaching for the connection when Gokudera spits, “The  _target_?” with so much shocked adrenaline in his tone that Yamamoto’s attention drops the pursuit of recognition entirely in favor of looking at the bright of Gokudera’s eyes, at the disbelief knocking his features blank.

Then Tsuna laughs, a bright sound that says  _yes_  before he has, and Yamamoto’s memories click into place just before he says, “Yeah, that’s the one.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, and Gokudera: “You’re calling him by his  _first name_?”

“Well.” Tsuna ducks his head, his shoulders moving through the nervous habits of childhood that Yamamoto hasn’t seen in years. It’s uncanny to watch them now in the guise of the Chief Inspector for their department. “I wanted to see how he was doing after we brought him in. And the therapist said I was a help, even though he didn’t want to talk much at all at first.” He takes a breath, lifts his head like he’s preparing himself for a confrontation. “And he’s doing better now, a lot better, actually. It turns out we have a lot in common.”

“ _What_?” Gokudera is all but spitting the word, his eyes wide with shock and what looks like the beginnings of panic. “You visited a  _criminal_ , Chief? You could have been  _hurt_ , your Coefficient could have--”

“It was fine,” Tsuna reassures him, rushing on the words. “There’s been a therapist there the whole time and they kept him in a cell for the first few visits anyway.” He frowns at that -- it’s sympathy on his face, now, discomfort at someone else’s suffering. “But his Coefficient dropped way, way down after they brought him in, and his Hue has been clearing too.” He’s smiling again, now, warm and carefully hopeful, and Yamamoto is smiling too, Tsuna’s happiness in this too contagious to not adopt. “We have a lot in common, I think, we actually get along really well; he recommended this series of books to me yesterday and I started it and--” He blinks, shuts his mouth, visibly cutting himself off into quiet, but his eyes are still bright, happy with the all-over joy he always shows when he’s made a new friend.

“Anyway.” He clears his throat, straightens his shoulders, and the weight of responsibility settles back onto him. He doesn’t seem to bear it as heavily as he did a moment ago. “They told me this morning he’s stable enough that they’re going to let him go back home.”

Gokudera makes a sound on the other side of the table, an involuntary rush of air from his lungs, and for a moment that’s all Yamamoto can think too. Rehabilitation is always the goal, but even in the last month and a half he’s picked up on the hopeless way the Bureau employees talk about it, the sarcastic laugh that Mukuro always appends to the word and the way Ryohei’s eyes always go a little dimmer when the subject comes up. Tsuna’s statement is like being told the sun has risen in the middle of the night, that something impossible has casually occurred at the edges of Yamamoto’s life, and for a moment he can’t think enough to form words.

“ _Oh_.” His eyes are wide, his mouth open, but Tsuna laughs a bubble of excitement and Gokudera is still perfectly silent, and in the end it’s Yamamoto who finds coherency first. “That’s  _amazing_ , Tsuna.”

“I know.” Tsuna is grinning all over his face, now, radiant with more happiness than he is usually master of. “Kyoko can’t wait to meet him once he’s been released.”

“Ha, I bet,” Yamamoto says. He’s still smiling, his personal happiness at the news enough to buoy him into weightless joy, but Gokudera is quiet, isn’t meeting Yamamoto’s eyes when he glances at him, and the other’s silence is serving as a tether for Yamamoto even though it doesn’t seem to touch Tsuna’s effervescent happiness.

“I’m glad I got to tell you,” Tsuna says, stacking his utensils across his empty dishes. “I’m going to go call Kyoko and let her know the good news too, but I thought you’d both like to know.” His smile slips, his eyes go dark for a moment. “Since you were both there.”

“Of course,” Gokudera finally says, his tone so startlingly bright it drags all Yamamoto’s attention away from Tsuna’s expression. He’s still not looking at Yamamoto; his gaze is fixed with complete determination on Tsuna, as if Yamamoto and the rest of the room have entirely ceased to exist. “That’s wonderful news, Chief!”

Tsuna huffs a breath of relief, his smile going wide and sincere once more. “I thought so!” He pushes back from the table, collects his dishes and slides his chair back in. “I’ll let you know if there’s any other news. See you both later!”

“See you,” Yamamoto offers.

“Goodbye, Chief!” Gokudera chirps, coupling the uncanny cheer in his tone with a wave and a smile so bright it’s nearly blinding. Yamamoto is left blinking afterimages as Tsuna moves towards the door; it’s not until the other is well out of earshot that Gokudera finally looks at Yamamoto, his smile fading as immediately as if Yamamoto is personally responsible for his irritation.

Yamamoto tries for a smile anyway. “That’s great news, isn’t it, Gokudera?”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps, whiplash anger biting back at Yamamoto’s question. “This sort of thing doesn’t  _happen_.”

Yamamoto laughs easy, the adrenaline in his veins wholly absent from his voice. “It just did, didn’t it?”

“Fuck you.” Gokudera is snarling, now, all but baring his teeth in Yamamoto’s direction. “The Chief is  _different_. You can’t count on miracles happening.”

“What’s wrong with optimism?” Yamamoto asks. He can’t look away from the flush of anger rising in Gokudera’s cheeks, the irritated tension at his mouth. “It doesn’t hurt anything.”

“It  _does_ ,” and Gokudera is leaning in, lunging halfway across the table so Yamamoto’s instinct tips him back in his chair and away from the possibility of violence. Gokudera’s still closer than he’s been for days, close enough for Yamamoto to see the individual silver lashes framing the green of his eyes, close enough for him to see the flecks of jade green amidst the darker olive of the irises. “You couldn’t have  _possibly_  known this would turn out this way. You could have gotten the Chief  _killed_ , right then, and fuck all your pretty optimism.”

“But--”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Gokudera says. He grabs at Yamamoto’s shirt, makes a fist of the pale fabric; when he jerks Yamamoto rocks forward, comes perilously close to the seething fury in Gokudera’s face.

“ _Listen_ , you  _idiot_ ,” he growls. “Not everyone can be fixed. Sometimes we  _have_  to kill them.” His knuckles tighten, pull harder against Yamamoto’s shirt. “That’s what  _I’m_  for.”

Gokudera holds them where they are for a moment, his mouth a hard line of fury. Yamamoto can feel his heart pounding hard against his chest, as desperate as if it’s trying to press itself against the vicious white of Gokudera’s knuckles. Then Gokudera’s mouth collapses into a sneer, the hold turns into a shove, and Yamamoto falls breathlessly back while Gokudera kicks his chair back and surges to his feet. He looks down at Yamamoto for a moment, his eyes dark and mouth so tense Yamamoto is expecting more, waiting for a parting volley of words to destroy what coherency he has left, but then he huffs instead, pivots on his heel to stride away and take the shadow in his eyes and the shine of his hair with him.

With his absence, the room is quiet enough that Yamamoto can hear the thud of his too-fast heartbeat.


	6. Air

The Dominator isn’t as heavy as Yamamoto expects. It’s a strange shape, the weight thrown forward at the front instead of weighted over his grip where he expects it to be, but for all the size of the weapon it’s shockingly light. Not that that’s doing him any favors right now; a weapon lighter than he expects is just as bad as one too heavy, for the purposes of aiming, and even the easy weight of the Dominator starts to ache after nearly an hour of supporting it on outstretched arms.

“You’re doing much better, Yamamoto!” Tsuna offers from the next target over. They’ve been taking practice shots in alternate bursts; the flashes of energy given off by the weapons aren’t dangerous even if they cross paths, but the color in Yamamoto’s periphery keeps drawing his attention away and veering his shots off-course. He’ll have to get used to it -- “You’re no fucking good if we have to clear a space for you to fire,” Gokudera had snarked from his mostly-silent observation just behind the two Inspectors -- but for now it’s enough of a challenge just to hit the roughly human-shaped target at the other end of the range.

He  _is_ doing better. The dark shape flashes momentarily blue whenever the energy so much as clips it; that’s all it would require to take out an actual person, after all, so even a glancing blow is enough for the purposes of the training. Yamamoto thinks he might be approaching Tsuna’s accuracy, now; he’s hitting it three out of every five times, he thinks, or maybe four, every shot feeling a little more sure before he takes it.

He might be improving faster, perhaps, were he not so distracted by the haze of smoke curling into the air, the fog unwinding from the end of Gokudera’s lit cigarette. Gokudera isn’t firing himself; he was just there with Tsuna when they met Yamamoto at the practice room, as snappish and generally furious as ever. Yamamoto has tried to keep his mind on what he’s doing -- on the weight of the Dominator against his palms, on the shape of the target at the other end of the field -- but his spine keeps tingling with electricity like there’s a gaze fixed to the back of his neck, like the bite of Gokudera’s eyes is transforming itself into a touch against his collar. Yamamoto can catch him staring, if he turns fast enough, but Gokudera just glares at him the harder, like maybe if he offers enough of a scowl Yamamoto will simply cease to exist in his vicinity.

He’s doing it now, when Yamamoto lowers the Dominator to give his aching wrists a moment to recover. Gokudera’s cigarette is nearly burned down, his shoulders an irritated slouch at the wall; Tsuna is lifting his own weapon to take another round of shots, but Gokudera is glaring at Yamamoto, looking as livid as if the other’s inexperience is a personal insult. His chin tips down, his mouth tightens against what’s left of his cigarette; for a moment he looks like he’s ready to throw a punch or a curse, like he’s on the verge of some kind of an explosion.

Yamamoto clears his throat, tries on a smile, attempts to divert the quick-burning fuse behind Gokudera’s eyes. “Did you want a round?” he asks, offering the Dominator at his side over the distance as a sort of belated peace offering.

Gokudera’s scowl deepens. He takes the cigarette from his mouth, looks away long enough to crush it against the ashtray along the back wall.

“You’re the one who needs the practice,” he snaps. “You’re not doing it right.”

“Huh?” Yamamoto blinks, coughs himself into an uncertain laugh. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Fuck,” Gokudera snaps and kicks against the wall to push himself forward. He snatches the Dominator from Yamamoto’s hand, fingers skimming against the other’s thumb for a too-brief moment, and then he’s shoving past him too, stepping right up to the edge of the line separating the firing range from the rest of the room. “Shut the fuck up and  _watch_ , idiot.” His hands come up, his shoulders sliding into a line of elegance like Yamamoto’s never seen before, and Yamamoto shuts up and watches.

Gokudera handles the Dominator differently; it’s not Tsuna’s white-knuckled grip, not Yamamoto’s too-hard hold on an unfamiliar weapon. Gokudera holds the Dominator like something fragile, like he’s bracing it against the delicate joints of his fingers rather than clinging to a weapon that might turn on him at any time. The rings at his fingers -- silver and black, bands stacked next to each other and sometimes double on a single finger -- fit against the line of the trigger, click faintly on the metal as he breathes out and smoothes his shoulders steady. And then he fires, easy, without bracing himself for a nonexistent recoil, just squeezing the trigger and watching the burst of blue light spread out in front of him. Yamamoto doesn’t watch the target; he doesn’t need to see to know that Gokudera hit it. He can see the certainty in the tilt of Gokudera’s head, can see the flash of the shot hitting home reflect a moment of blue-washed glow over the shadows in Gokudera’s eyes. Gokudera takes a second shot, a third, his shoulders steady with confidence, and Yamamoto doesn’t blink, doesn’t look away. Gokudera’s expression is as relaxed as his body, clear with focus and almost-hazy with instinct, and Yamamoto didn’t think anything could be more beautiful than Gokudera’s scowl but this calm attention is pressing against his chest like it has a physical weight, like the air in the room has gone mountaintop-thin in his lungs.

Gokudera blinks, and lowers the weapon, and his frown is back in place even as he turns to glare at Yamamoto. There’s some comfort in the anger, a reassurance to be gained from the sparking dislike in his eyes, and Yamamoto is expecting the other’s movement enough to catch the Dominator as Gokudera throws it none-too-gently at his chest.

“You weren’t even watching,” he snaps, and Yamamoto knows better by now than to say that he was, that he saw the most important details. “There’s no goddamn hope for you.”

“Gokudera,” Tsuna sighs. “Don’t be mean.” Gokudera doesn’t respond, just retreats back to resume his position at the wall and produce another cigarette from inside his jacket; Yamamoto looks away before the other has turned back around, blinks himself back into focus on Tsuna’s creased-forehead worry.

“We can pick this back up later,” Tsuna suggests, looking skittish and faintly apologetic. “We’ve been here a while already.”

“Let me try again,” Yamamoto says, smiling as brightly as he knows how. “I think I see how to do it now.” There’s a  _tsk_  from the wall, skepticism given the shape of sound; Yamamoto only glances at Gokudera for a moment, barely long enough to catch the electric spark of his glare, before he turns away to face back down the range once more.

He doesn’t take the time to straighten his stance this time. He just steps forward to the line, lets his feet fall into the suggestion of a diagonal like they do naturally instead of forcing them into a rigid template. He shifts his grip, lets the Dominator’s shape falls against his fingers, his thumb finding out a resting spot just above the trigger like it was meant to be there. When he lifts the weapon it feels like a baseball bat, the weight balanced away from his hands but the handle enough to grant him the control he needs. His vision goes blue as the crosshairs sweep over the target, the glow enough to ensure his aim is accurate -- his finger tightens, slides the trigger down through its range of motion, and his vision washes into a sea of electronic blue as the Dominator fires.

He’s still blinking spots from his vision when Tsuna reacts, low and in a tone of some reverence. “Wow.” He sounds shocked; Yamamoto doesn’t need to look at him to know he’s wearing the wide-eyed stare of true surprise that washes his expression back to childhood. “You hit it dead-on, Yamamoto.”

“ _Once_ ,” a voice grates from behind them. Yamamoto twists without thinking, falling out of his easy stance; Gokudera is staring at him instead of at the target, his jaw so tight on irritation Yamamoto can see the line of anger in it. “He hit it  _once_. It was a lucky shot. It takes  _months_  to be that accurate consistently.”

“Gokudera--” Tsuna starts, but Yamamoto talks over him before he can give another order that they all know won’t be obeyed.

“Bet I can do it again.” It’s the adrenaline speaking, Yamamoto knows, the bright sparkling joy of success rippling through him like sunlight. It reminds him of high school, baseball games as the team’s ace, as the star player, the delight of victory and the breathless anticipation of competition. It’s been years since he felt this, felt the excitement of it rising up to take over his tongue, to turn his grin into something just this side of teasing. “I bet I can hit the next ten shots too.”

“Bullshit,” Gokudera growls, and Yamamoto laughs without thinking, without anything in his head but the reckless pleasure of the moment. He’s still smiling when he turns back to the range and steps back into that comfortable position he saw Gokudera take.

He makes the next ten shots. Then fifteen. Twenty. It’s easy. The bolts of energy go where he wants them to like he’s determining their flight himself; he barely pauses to let his vision clear of the blue haze between shots. He doesn’t know how many it’s been when he finally stops, and looks back, and realizes that Gokudera is gone.

Yamamoto can feel his smile fall off his face, can feel the bright edge of happiness slip back and away. There’s still smoke in the air, the suggestion of a recently lost presence, but Gokudera himself is nowhere to be seen.

“Where’s Gokudera?” Yamamoto asks. When he looks at Tsuna the other is still staring at Yamamoto’s target, still looking shocked into stillness by his success.

“What?” Tsuna blinks, visibly shakes himself back into focus. “He said he was going to finish a report.”

“Oh.” Yamamoto glances at the door. “Okay.”

“Do you want to keep going?” Tsuna asks, looking back out at the targets. “You got the hang of that really quickly, I’m impressed. It took Gokudera weeks of practice before he could hit that consistently.” A laugh, short with self-deprecation. “I  _still_  can’t hit it that consistently.”

Yamamoto pulls a smile. “Well, they always told me practice was important for baseball,” he says, stepping back from the range to take the space left by Gokudera’s departure. “I’m sure you’ll improve with time!”

Tsuna huffs a laugh that is more skepticism than amusement. “Yeah, maybe.” He shakes his shoulders out, takes a breath like he’s bracing himself, and turns back around to face his target as he lifts the Dominator in front of him.

Yamamoto leans back against the wall and breathes in the faint fog in the air. It tastes like smoke on his tongue.


	7. Watching

Missions with Ryohei, Yamamoto finds, are much less quiet.

“ _Hey_!” It’s a shout, a booming burst of sound so loud it echoes off the closed-in walls of the hallway. “Where are you?”

“Like he’s going to answer,” Gokudera growls at Ryohei’s back. When Yamamoto glances at him sideways he’s glaring at the other Inspector’s shoulders, his mouth twisted around the scowl he wears more easily than a smile.

“I would answer!” Ryohei declares without stopping his forward movement down the hallway. They’re moving fast, none of the quiet shuffling Tsuna led with on the last mission Yamamoto was on; Ryohei takes long strides, fast enough that Yamamoto has to focus to keep up and enough that Gokudera is very nearly jogging at his side. It’s easier to bear, Yamamoto thinks, than the taut expectation of the last mission; this lacks the adrenaline-fraught nerves, at least, and the fact that the hallways are bright with light helps too. It feels far more like a simple project, to go and bring one single person back in to the Bureau; even Gokudera’s growling is calmer, offered more for the appearance of irritation than tight-wound around true concern.

“Where are you?” Ryohei shouts again as they round another corner. For all the illumination the building is deserted but for them; the perimeter Mukuro and Chrome helped set up earlier in the day is probably responsible for that. They’ve only run into a pair of occupants so far, both of them easy to scan as being well within healthy range, and after directing them to “Go somewhere extremely safe!” they headed for the front door and vanished from sight.

“Does anyone ever answer?” Yamamoto asks Gokudera as they continue down the empty white of the hallway. He gets a sideways glare for the question, a deepening of Gokudera’s frown; for a moment he thinks the other won’t answer at all. Then Ryohei shouts again, even the echo loud enough for them both to flinch, and Gokudera rolls his eyes and sighs resignation.

“Sometimes.” He sounds like he’s admitting something at gunpoint, the words dragged from him under extreme duress. “Chrome did.”

Yamamoto misses a step, catches his toe on the floor and stumbles before he can catch his balance. “Chrome was a target?”

“Yeah.” Gokudera glances at him sideways, looks back to continue glaring at Ryohei’s shoulders. “She and Mukuro both. Once we had Mukuro in custody she turned herself in to the first Inspector she found.” Gokudera’s forehead creases. When he shakes his head in disbelief his hair catches at the shoulders of his jacket. “Weird girl. I would have run as long as I could.”

“Huh.” Yamamoto pauses. It would be easy to let Gokudera’s statement stand, to lapse back into the silence they’ve been sustaining since they came in. But Gokudera seems less irritated by conversation than usual, or maybe he’s just too distracted by glaring at Ryohei to remember to snap at Yamamoto, and Yamamoto doesn’t want to miss out on the other’s unusual civility. “What did they do?”

“Mukuro kidnapped an Inspector,” Gokudera says, as directly as if this is a regular occurrence. “He was attacking people before that, too; knocking them out, beating them bloody, leaving them around the Bureau like he was taunting us. Then he managed to actually take out Hibari and we had to send in a whole team to take him out.” He makes a face, scowling at Ryohei’s shoulders even though his distaste is clearly linked to the past rather than the present. “It was a mess.”

Yamamoto’s expression tightens with confusion. “What about the Inspector?”

“Hibari?”

Yamamoto blinks. “Hibari was an Inspector?”

“Yeah,” Gokudera says. “His Hue was all fucked up when we got him back in, he had to be transferred to Enforcer instead.” He glances at Yamamoto, away. “I can’t believe no one told you,” he says, sounding almost angry, like it’s Yamamoto’s fault he didn’t get sufficient information.

“No,” Yamamoto offers, feeling vaguely apologetic. Gokudera’s scowling again, settling back into his usual untouchable anger. “I guess Tsuna had other things on his mind.”

Gokudera cuts his eyes at Yamamoto again. His frown is in full effect now, his eyes sparking irritation even before he spits, “The  _Chief_  has more important things to do than gossip with a baseball idiot.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto laughs. “Good thing I have you around, huh?”

Gokudera growls. “Shut the  _fuck_  up,” he spits, and Yamamoto laughs again, even knowing it’s the wrong reaction, even knowing it will only harden the anger in Gokudera’s eyes. He can’t help it; it spills up his throat from the adrenaline-heat that’s always just under his skin when Gokudera’s around, like something wonderful is about to happen.

Then Ryohei yells, “ _Hey_!” and Yamamoto jerks his attention away from silver hair to white walls. There’s movement, the bright of a t-shirt clear at the end of the hall, and then they’re all moving at once, all three of them taking off running as the target ducks around a corner. Whatever advantage longer legs gave Yamamoto in keeping up with Ryohei is mitigated by an explosive speed he hasn’t seen from Gokudera before; they round the corner nearly in step, with Gokudera’s over-enthusiastic elbows to blame for pushing Ryohei to the back.

“ _Move_ ,” Gokudera’s hissing as they turn, as his foot cuts in front of Yamamoto’s to nearly trip him. “Get out of the  _way_.” He plants his foot, swings his Dominator up -- Yamamoto didn’t even see him draw it -- and rocks his weight back on his foot to steady himself. His eyes flash blue, his expression falling into that same perfect relaxation Yamamoto saw at the firing range, and everything drops into slow-motion, reality dipping into the elegant rules of a dance. Gokudera shakes his hair back from his face, steadies his hands; there’s a vicious scowl at his lips, the bared teeth of threat given danger by the weapon in his hands. The Dominator lights, the charge building as Gokudera’s finger pushes down; then Gokudera lurches, his foot slipping as his shoulders twist, and the blue burst of energy fires sideways and off-target.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera blurts, and it’s then that Yamamoto blinks and realizes that there’s silver against the shoulder of Gokudera’s jacket, a knife pinning the fabric to his body. Gokudera’s hissing, one of his hands coming free of the Dominator to clutch reflexively at the injury instead, and for a moment all Yamamoto can see is the pain dragging his mouth soft, the hurt creasing between the silver of his brows.

Then he turns. It’s easy, he doesn’t need to think; he’s taking a step forward like Gokudera showed him, dropping his shoulders and lifting his Dominator as he scans the room to pick out the target. He’s behind an overturned table, the flat wood of the surface granting protection to most of his body, but his head is up over the edge, his hand lifting to throw another knife. Yamamoto looks at the knife, the silver of the metal catching the light the way Gokudera’s hair does, and when he locks the crosshairs on it’s to catch at the knuckles of the target’s hand, the pinpoint-precise shot bursting from the Dominator before he’s consciously squeezed the trigger.

He knows it’s hit, knows it’s going to before the target jerks into the rigidity of Paralysis and drops to the floor behind the table. By the time Ryohei has shouted “Woah!” from behind them Yamamoto’s Dominator is on the floor, he’s on his knees and reaching for Gokudera’s shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he’s saying, and he doesn’t recognize his voice, there’s a weird low tremor under it like he’s shaking, like he can’t catch his breath, even though his hands are perfectly steady.

Gokudera’s rings catch against the inside of his wrist as the other smacks his hand away. Yamamoto blinks, jolted out of the rush of adrenaline by the impact, and then he can see Gokudera staring at him, something shadowing over his eyes and weirdly soft at his mouth.

“Don’t touch me,” he says. He looks away, down at the silver at his shoulder; Yamamoto only sees his fingers against the knife tense for a moment, giving him nothing like enough time to react before Gokudera jerks the weapon free with another hiss of pain. He tosses it aside, reaches up to press his palm to the tear in his coat, and when he looks back up it’s Ryohei he focuses on instead of Yamamoto, his attention landing on the other Inspector as he pushes the table aside to kneel next to the target.

“I was fine,” he says, still staring at Ryohei. Yamamoto can see the movement of his eyelashes when he blinks. “I had that, I didn’t need your help.”

Yamamoto blinks. “But we’re a team,” he says, the the statement foreign with how obvious it tastes. “We’re supposed to work together.”

Gokudera’s mouth tightens. “I didn’t need your help,” he repeats, and then Ryohei is coming back, carrying the unconscious weight of the target over a shoulder and bubbling overloud congratulations on the ‘extreme accuracy’ of Yamamoto’s shot.

Yamamoto watches Gokudera the whole way back to the Bureau, but Gokudera doesn’t look at him again.


	8. Worry

Gokudera’s not in the office when Yamamoto gets in the next morning. His presence has become routine, the attraction of company enough to sustain Yamamoto’s early-rising habits and the possibility of acceptance enough to keep him buying coffee that he’s drunk himself for every day since the first. It’s not the bitter of the unsweetened caffeine that keeps him distracted from the reports he should be writing; it’s that the room is too quiet, the air too clear of smoke, until by the time someone else shows up Yamamoto is desperate enough to try making conversation with Hibari. This goes exactly as poorly as might be expected, but Ryohei arrives within five minutes, and then Mukuro with his constant Chrome-shadow, and then the office is so filled with Mukuro’s taunting chuckle and Ryohei’s overloud small talk that Yamamoto is almost distracted from the missing Enforcer. It’s enough to keep him smiling, enough to keep him laughing at Ryohei’s narration of a failed date the night before, but when the door comes open again Yamamoto’s attention skids away as if it was never tied down at all to land on Gokudera’s scowl as if the other had shouted his name.

“Morning, Gokudera!” he calls, loud enough to be heard over Ryohei, starts to stand up from his chair before he realizes he doesn’t have any reason to be on his feet and subsides. “You’re later than usual.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps. His jacket is undone, the white of his shirt bright under the fluorescent lights overhead; he has an unlit cigarette between his teeth, is fumbling in his pocket for a lighter. “What are you, my mother?”

“I was just surprised when I didn’t see you this morning,” Yamamoto says. Gokudera kicks his chair out from the desk with a foot, drops to collapse against it while he retrieves a battered silver lighter from his pocket and strikes a flame. “I thought maybe you had the day off.”

There’s a cut of green eyes, an inhale to pull the end of the cigarette bright and glowing before Gokudera snaps the lighter shut. “I don’t  _have_  days off.” A rush of smoke, silver filling the air between them to soften the sharp edge of Gokudera’s mouth, to ease the breathtaking color of his eyes.

“What were you doing?” Yamamoto asks, curiosity getting the better of politeness. “Did you sleep better last night?”

Gokudera groans. “Seriously, I don’t need a fucking keeper,” he snaps. He tosses his lighter aside, reaches up to tug at the shoulder of his coat. There’s nothing to see under the fabric except for pale shirt, but he gestures anyway, the dark weight of a ring on his thumb drawing Yamamoto’s eyes to the abrupt motion towards his shoulder.

“I had to get stitched up.” He lets his jacket fall, shrugs it back into place with a motion that would be almost nervous if it weren’t so aggressive. “They wouldn’t let me back in the office until I got medical clearance.”

“Stitches?” Yamamoto repeats. His gaze sticks at Gokudera’s shoulder, like he can see through jacket and shirt to the bandage underneath. His throat tightens his words into a strange resonance of worry. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“Jesus,” Gokudera groans. “It’s  _not_  that bad.” He hunches his shoulders in, takes another drag off his cigarette. “It’s just a couple stitches. Didn’t you ever get injured on your stupid baseball team?”

Yamamoto laughs, a burst of sound as much anxious concern as it is amusement. “Well, yeah. Not the same thing as getting stabbed, though.”

The eyeroll Yamamoto gets for this statement is elaborate, such an extended process it is nearly a work of art. “How the fuck did you end up at this job,” Gokudera sighs heavily. “This isn’t a big deal, idiot. Did you expect criminals would come in quietly just for the asking?”

“Kind of you to join us,” Mukuro drawls, his tone somehow carrying enough that it cuts past the continued rumble of Ryohei’s words -- directed at Hibari, now -- and derails any attempt at defense Yamamoto might form for the judgment in Gokudera’s smoke-hazed stare. It’s also enough to pull Gokudera’s attention sideways and away from Yamamoto, the slide of his eyes enough to drag Yamamoto’s gaze in their wake to fix on where Tsuna is stalled in the doorway and dissolving into a stammering mess of attempted explanation.

“I got here earlier,” he starts, sounding as embarrassed as he did when called out on tardiness in high school. “I had to report to Timoteo about yesterday’s mission first thing.”

“Of course you did,” Gokudera puts in sharply. He sends a glare Mukuro’s way; Yamamoto doesn’t have to turn to see Mukuro’s unaffected smirk, can read the other’s lack of response in the irritated tension at Gokudera’s forehead. “We know you have a very busy schedule, Chief!”

“Ha,” Tsuna coughs, looking more uncomfortable than amused by this. “Yeah.” His gaze flickers around the room, skimming over the other occupants; then he lands on Yamamoto, and Yamamoto can see the stress in his features clear into the calm of relief.

“Yamamoto.” Even his movements are easier as he comes forward, fast like he’s moving towards a safe haven and out of the spotlight of leadership. “Good job yesterday.”

Yamamoto blinks, memory failing to provide him with a reason for this congratulations. “Hm?”

“Ryohei told me about that shot you had.” Tsuna’s smile is warm, the hand he drops on Yamamoto’s shoulder gentle. Yamamoto can feel the heat of Gokudera’s stare without turning. “It sounds like it was amazing.”

“Oh.” Yamamoto blinks, remembers the weight of the Dominator in his hands, the ease of the arc it cut through the air, the unthinking pressure of his finger on the trigger. It reminds him of baseball, a little, to be praised for something that seemed so thoughtlessly simple at the time. “Thanks.”

“I’m glad you were there,” Tsuna says. His hand lingers at Yamamoto’s shoulder, the weight a point of contact, but he looks sideways, the shift in his attention enough of an excuse for Yamamoto to look back at Gokudera. There’s a moment of eye contact, furious green against gold, and then Gokudera looks down at his desk, reaches out to tap ash into the ashtray while Tsuna says, “You two made a really good team.”

“Sawada Tsunayoshi.” Hibari, that, the steady-flat line of his voice identifiable in spite of how rarely Yamamoto hears it. “Save your fraternizing for locations outside the Bureau.”

Tsuna steps back, going as pale as if the other is the Chief and not himself. “I just wanted to say good job,” he says quickly, final punctuation to the congratulations. “Good work, Yamamoto.”

“Thanks,” Yamamoto says, and Tsuna turns away to retreat to his own desk. Yamamoto glances at Gokudera, who is still occupied with the overaggressive flick of his cigarette against ring-burdened fingers, and back at his computer screen as he tries to remember what he was doing in the first place.

The kick is unexpected. It’s a burst of pain, bruise-deep and heavy against Yamamoto’s shin; he yelps at the shock, reaches to grab reflexively against the impact, and by the time he looks up and across the desk Gokudera’s glaring at him again.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he hisses, low but sharp enough that it carries clearly. “I don’t care how much of a goddamn natural you are with the Dominator.” His cigarette is burning unattended against the ashtray, the haze of Gokudera’s smoke-laden exhales clearing as he leans in closer. His mouth is taut around his frown. “ _Enforcers_  deal with criminals.” He looks furious, his eyes crackling with the electricity of irritation and his scowl baring the sharp white of his teeth, and Yamamoto can’t quite breathe right. “I don’t care how fucking fancy you are with a Dominator. All you’re supposed to do is be a good boy and stay out of trouble.”

There’s a pause. Yamamoto stares at Gokudera, and doesn’t speak, and after sufficiently long has passed Gokudera seems to accept silence as agreement, leans back in his chair and resumes smoking with enough force as if he’s trying to make up for the lapse in his pattern. Yamamoto doesn’t try to correct his assumption. His breathing isn’t steady enough that he can make an attempt at speech again yet, even if he knew what he wanted to say.


	9. Tense

“ _Seriously_ ,” Gokudera growls without turning around. “Why are you still here? This is  _easy_ , I don’t need your help.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto offers as he shuffles another half-step closer so he can make out the details of Gokudera’s words over the low hum of the crowd of protesters. “Tsuna ordered the whole department out to supervise, I couldn’t be the only one to stay behind.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to stick yourself to  _me_ ,” Gokudera snaps. This time he cuts his eyes sideways, flashes a spark of irritation in Yamamoto’s direction to match the irritated puff of smoke from his everpresent cigarette. “I’m not interested in playing babysitter.”

“You don’t have to take care of me,” Yamamoto says quickly. “I can handle myself. I was helpful last time, wasn’t I?”

He had hoped, in a sort of unthinking way, to win a smile for his trouble, even just a momentary softening of the wall behind Gokudera’s glare. Unfortunately this hope is premised on Gokudera behaving like anyone Yamamoto’s ever met before; what he gets instead is a hiss for all the world like an offended cat and Gokudera all but baring his teeth as he reaches up to press his fingers against his healing shoulder in what is rapidly becoming a habit.

“I didn’t need you then  _either_ ,” he snaps. “You got in the way, idiot, I could have dealt with it on my own.”

“You got hurt,” Yamamoto points out, because his eyes are stuck on the idle shove of Gokudera’s fingers against his shirt, because the thought of blood staining the white of that fabric aches painfully against the inside of his chest like it’s a weight too much to bear.

“That’s part of the  _job_ ,” Gokudera spits, and he’s walking faster now, Yamamoto doesn’t think he’s even looking at the murmuring crowd of student protesters they are supposed to be monitoring. “That’s why Enforcers exist, to be  _expendable_  in the interest of keeping healthy fucking idiots like you safe. What the hell about this idea is so hard for you to get through your thick skull?”

“I don’t think you’re expendable,” Yamamoto says.

It’s the obvious answer, the words fitting themselves into his head to wrap around that sympathetic pain at the idea of Gokudera getting hurt, to explain the reason the smoke from Gokudera’s lips tastes like poison on his. He doesn’t even think about it until he says it, until Gokudera is stopping so abruptly Yamamoto nearly topples right into him before he can stall his forward momentum. Gokudera turns back to stare at him. His mouth is still turned down in its usual scowl, the cigarette at his lips still burning bright with smouldering heat, but for a moment his eyes are strange, lighter than usual like shock has knocked some of their shadowy color free. Yamamoto’s heart skips backwards, stammers in adrenaline that never touched his tongue, and he can feel the weight of those words in retrospect, can read their value from the wide-eyed surprise all across Gokudera’s features.

There’s a crackle of static, the sound of a microphone switching on, and Yamamoto’s hearing sparks with the sound of the receiver pressed against his ear. “Everyone!” It’s too loud, the volume speaking to the owner as much as the familiarity of Ryohei’s tone does; Gokudera cringes, flinches from the sound, and Yamamoto laughs in the first startle of reaction. There’s another crackle, a protest that gets cut off halfway; then another voice, this one with the far softer intonation of Hibari’s tone.

“The crowd has become restless.” Hibari makes it sound like ‘I told you so,’ like this state of affairs is only to be expected when people are allowed to assemble  _en masse_. “Hues are red shifting.”

“We’re seeing that too.” Tsuna, that, closely followed by soft agreement from Chrome’s receiver. “Keep from offering a threat unless it becomes necessary.”

“They should be dealt with quickly,” Hibari pronounces.

“Not unless things escalate,” Tsuna insists. His voice sounds steadier than it usually does, certain in the face of the rising volatility of the scene. It makes Yamamoto’s spine prickle with energy, the anticipation of conflict brought on by the very steadiness in Tsuna’s voice.

“Got it, Chief!” Gokudera chirps into his receiver. The radio in Yamamoto’s ear gives a heartbeat delay to Gokudera’s words, the sound hitting one ear just out of sync with the other. It’s faintly disorienting, like existing in two times at once. “Holding steady.”

There’s a chorus of agreement, Ryohei’s shout drowning out whatever barely-there affirmative Hibari might have offered. The line goes quiet again, but neither Gokudera nor Yamamoto resumes the thread of conversation; the hum of sound from the crowd has gone tense, now, expanding to fill the space around them until there is no space for speech.

For several minutes nothing happens. Yamamoto feels overbright, hyperclear, like he can see everything around him in perfect color and vivid outlines. The crowd is getting tense as it turns in on itself, the glances they throw towards he and Gokudera getting sharper with each passing minute, but Yamamoto feels like he’s going calmer, falling into a pool of still water and looking up through the clear liquid to see everything clear and pristine and endlessly distant. Gokudera’s not snapping at him anymore; they’re falling into line with each other, the motions of actually patrolling given over to stand adjacent, so close that Gokudera’s elbow bumps Yamamoto’s arm when he checks the weight of the Dominator at his hip and so quiet that he doesn’t even protest this glancing interaction.

There’s a flurry, voices sparking loud in the middle of the cluster. Gokudera’s expression turns stormy, his eyes going dark with expectation of violence, but Yamamoto feels himself going heavier, time slowing like it’s turning to that water cradling his thoughts. He can see the ripple through the crowd, the motion sweeping over multiple people as though they aren’t individuals anymore, as though they are all part of a single organism, and then there’s something else, something dark and flickering with movement as it separates itself from the people. It marks out an arc in the air, a clean line of falling as it sweeps towards them, and Yamamoto reaches out unthinkingly, extends his hand to capture the weight of the projectile before he has had a chance to see what it is.

He thinks it’s a firework, at first, in the illogic of his slow-fast mental reactions. It’s the right shape, at least, with the cylindrical tube fitting neatly in his palm and the fuse running off it. But it’s held together with duct tape at the edges, looks far less colorful than the clean wrappings he’s used to seeing, and he’s just blinking at the crackling heat of the flame licking up the fuse when a hand closes on his shoulder, when a voice cuts through the too-slow working of his thoughts.

“ _Throw it!_ ”

Yamamoto’s never heard Gokudera sound like that, with his voice shrill and snapping with all the force of command. There’s an arm coming out, a hand gesturing peremptorily down the street, towards an alley shadowed and empty of passersby, and Yamamoto moves without thinking, obedient to the grate on Gokudera’s words and the panicked-sharp motion of his hand. His foot moves back, his arm comes up, and when he snaps his shoulders and hips forward it’s with the full force of years of baseball, flinging his burden clear across the street to bounce off the wall of the alley. There’s a sound, then, a strange booming  _crack_  that Yamamoto can feel through his teeth and jaw and spine, a burst of blinding light and a cloud of smoke. And even then it doesn’t register, like the explosion somehow blew coherency out of his thoughts along with the clarity from his vision. It’s not until Gokudera speaks, the sound of his voice cutting through the ringing afterimage in Yamamoto’s ears, that he catches up to what just happened.

“Don’t  _hold onto_  a  _goddamn bomb_.” The words sound weird, they’re skidding up and down Gokudera’s vocal range; when Yamamoto blinks and turns to look Gokudera is staring at him, his eyes wide in that pale-color shock again. His scowl is gone, replaced with a tremble against his lower lip that almost looks like fright. “You fucking  _idiot_.” Yamamoto doesn’t realize Gokudera’s still holding onto his shoulder until the other drags him back bodily by the grip, yanking him away from the edge of the crowd even though they’ve gone silent and still in the wake of the explosion. Gokudera ducks his head, says something into the receiver that consists primarily of invective and a request for ‘Hibari to get his ass over here to fucking  _cover_  us, I thought Mukuro said they didn’t have  _weapons_ ,’ but Yamamoto is still caught in the time-lapse of too much adrenaline in his blood, all of reality feeling hazy and strange around him with the actuality of danger too big for him to process. But Gokudera doesn’t let his hold go, and of the too-much of the situation, the pressure of his desperate grip digging in against Yamamoto’s shoulder is just the right size to focus on.


	10. Taste

The worst of the shock passes within the hour. There’s a wave of action in the first few minutes after the explosion, the protesters scattering under the joint forces of Hibari pushing them aside and Tsuna’s shouted requests for them to disperse. There’s scanning to be done, too, sweeping the red-locked Dominators over the crowd in hopes of catching a misplaced Hue to give away the person who threw the makeshift bomb, but the Dominators aren’t quite instantaneous, and the motion of the crowd makes it difficult to bring the beam into focus on a single individual. Yamamoto does his best, after Gokudera loosens the restraint of his grip with a hissed, “Don’t be stupid, baseball idiot,” but all he sees is clear Hues, colors easing as the strain of the protest itself melts away along with the crowd. By the time the last stragglers have retreated Gokudera is seething at their failure, Mukuro is laughing, and Yamamoto is ready to give up worrying about an uncertain danger in favor of recalling the sharp sound of Gokudera’s voice on his panic-harsh command and the fit of his fingers against the bones of Yamamoto’s shoulder.

He’s still thinking about it when he arrives at the office the next morning, indulging in daydream memories as he buys his usual attempt of a peace offering in the form of coffee before continuing down the hall to the office. He doesn’t even glance through the other windows to see if he recognizes any of the early-morning regulars; he’s looking at the coffee instead, tossing it idly as he walks to catch the weight solid and heavy against his palm. He can see the glow of the overhead lights from a few doors down, can catch the suggestion of cigarette smoke as he draws closer, and it  _could_  be any one of several smokers in the building but he knows who it is, is ready with a smile and his usual “Morning, Gokudera!” as he turns to step through the office entrance.

Gokudera looks up at the sound of his name, as he always does. Yamamoto is expecting a huff of irritation, a shift of silver hair as Gokudera turns away quickly, like if he’s fast enough it will undo his reaction in the first place. On a good day Yamamoto even gets a verbal response, usually in the form of an insult. But today Gokudera doesn’t turn away, and doesn’t say anything; Yamamoto has a moment to take in his expression, a strange calm blankness over his features as if he was just waiting for this expected moment, before he reaches out sideways over the desk to grab something. Yamamoto just has time to take in the backwards draw of Gokudera’s arm, to see the presence of something in his hand, before the tension snaps free and Gokudera is throwing that same something across the room and directly at Yamamoto’s face.

He doesn’t think at all. Protective reflex tells him to throw his hand up, trained-in habit dips his hand back at the impact so he can actually catch the projectile; then there’s cold at his palm, condensation slicking off the object to catch at his skin, and when he lowers his hand and looks down he’s holding a sports drink bottle.

“You catch things like that often?” Gokudera asks. His voice is odd, rough at the edges with his usual gravel but lacking either the syrupy sweetness he adds for Tsuna or the vicious bite Yamamoto is usually subject to. Yamamoto looks up from the bottle, curious as to the expression that goes with that neutral-calm tone, but Gokudera’s not looking at him anymore; he’s curled in over his desk, staring at a report and idly tapping a pen against the desktop instead of writing.

Yamamoto blinks. “Not anymore, I guess,” he admits. “Just kind of habit, you know?”

“Baseball freak,” Gokudera says, but he’s not snapping the words, and Yamamoto’s pretty sure he’s glancing sideways through his hair. “Are you planning to make a habit of catching  _bombs_  like that?” There’s a suggestion of his more ordinary grate, there, a hint of irritation, but he’s not glaring yet, even when Yamamoto takes a tentative step farther into the office.

“Ha,” Yamamoto tries. “Hadn’t thought about it.”

That gets him a hiss, a sharp cut of green eyes with the irritation he’s used to. “You had damn well  _better_  think about it before you try something like yesterday again.” Yamamoto edges around the corner of the desk, interposes the furniture between himself and Gokudera’s bright eyes without looking away. Gokudera doesn’t either. “If you hadn’t thrown that you would have blown yourself to pieces.”

“Good thing I did,” Yamamoto says. “What would have happened if I hadn’t caught it?”

He already suspects. He’s good at judging trajectories -- it was important, before -- and even the unbalanced toppling of the bomb hadn’t been enough to obscure the clean curve that would have dropped it at Gokudera’s feet. He’s not an idiot, for all Gokudera’s preferred insults; it had been a matter of seconds between the weight of the thing hitting his palm and the burst of sound and smoke, barely enough time for him to throw it in-hand.

Then he sees the flicker of Gokudera’s eyes, his gaze dropping to his desk instead of holding to Yamamoto’s face, and he knows.

“Gokudera--” he starts, his voice coming out weird and a little shaky with the sudden surge of useless adrenaline, too-late fear for what could have been, what wasn’t.

“Give me that,” Gokudera says, sharply enough to cut off whatever incoherent response Yamamoto’s mouth was about to make for him. He reaches out, the stretch of his fingers quick and commanding, and Yamamoto offers the bottle Gokudera threw at him.

Gokudera huffs a sigh, rolls his eyes in a way that is very nearly ordinary as he pushes Yamamoto’s hand away. “Not  _that_ , you fucking idiot. What the hell would I do with it?”

 _Drink it_ , some corner of Yamamoto’s mind offers deadpan, but Gokudera is still reaching, and when he looks down at the forgotten weight still in his other hand teasing is abandoned in favor of obedience.

“Oh,” he says aloud, then quick, like Gokudera might change his mind if he waits too long: “Yeah, here.” He holds out the coffee can, heart thudding overfast in his chest, and Gokudera takes it without meeting his eyes, fingertips catching careless at Yamamoto’s knuckles as he pulls the can away. He sets it against his desk, braces it against the surface with one hand so he can open it with the other, and for a moment Yamamoto just stares at his fingers, the familiar movement made into poetry by the slide of Gokudera’s thumb over the top of the can, by the flex of his fingers as he cracks the lid open. He takes his cigarette with one hand, bracing the shape of it between two fingers to hold off to the side, and it’s not until his lips are against the metal edge of the can and his throat is working on a swallow that Yamamoto blinks and remembers to sit down in his chair.

Gokudera doesn’t say anything else. Yamamoto keeps glancing at him -- the set of his lips against his cigarette, the curtain of his hair falling around his face -- but he stays silent except for occasional swallows of coffee, his shoulders hunched forward so resolutely that even Yamamoto doesn’t try to breach the wall they make. He opens the bottle in his hands instead, twisting the cap off before he’s recognized the familiar label on the side, the design telltale for his preferred brand. When he looks up Gokudera’s still not looking at him; if anything he’s tipped in farther, has his head ducked so low Yamamoto can’t even make out the color of his eyes for the shadow of his hair.

The liquid tastes sweeter than Yamamoto remembers it being before.


	11. Existing

Yamamoto isn’t sure how he knows Gokudera has come into the training room. His back is to the entrance, his breathing loud enough that it dominates his whole attention and holds his focus securely enough that he doesn’t hear the sound of the door opening or the faint scuff of footsteps. It might be the haze of smoke that clings to the other even when he lacks a lit cigarette, or maybe it’s just that Yamamoto has some near-preternatural sense of his surroundings born from the unconscious fluidity of his movements. In the end it suffices that Yamamoto knows, that he can feel the heat of Gokudera’s stare on him, so when he finishes out his movement and looks up it’s with a smile instead of surprise.

Gokudera is watching him. It’s not his usual glare; his expression lacks the prickly aggression Yamamoto is so used to seeing in the other’s face. He looks abstracted instead, his mouth relaxed and his eyes soft, like he’s forgotten what he’s doing. The greeting Yamamoto had intended to offer dies at his lips, gives way instead to a helpless rush of air from his lungs; it’s louder than he intended, sounds a little like a gasp and a lot like a sigh, and then Gokudera blinks, his eyebrows drawing together and his mouth hardening into a frown.

“What,” he says, pushing off the wall and curving his shoulders in over himself. He’s out of his suit again, wearing jeans that cling to his hips to make him look inordinately skinny, the low-slung edge of them drawing Yamamoto’s gaze before he can think through the potential dangers of getting caught staring at the half-inch of skin left bare between dark denim and tight-fitting shirt. His eyes land at the sharp edge of hipbone, draw along the movement as Gokudera shifts his weight; then there’s a harsh inhale of air, Gokudera clearing his throat overloud in the quiet, and Yamamoto jerks his focus back up to the other’s face.

“Hey there,” he blurts, retreating back to the familiarity of the skipped-over greeting. “Were you waiting very long?”

Gokudera’s shoulder drags up, a shrug that has no meaning at all beyond dismissal of Yamamoto’s question. The movement tugs his shirt higher, but Yamamoto resolutely keeps his attention at the other’s face, even if Gokudera’s stare is dark with judgment.

“Why do you keep practicing this?” he finally says instead of answering Yamamoto’s question. His mouth is set on irritation, his eyes so dark Yamamoto can barely see green in them at all anymore. “You won’t ever use it in the field.”

Yamamoto’s laugh comes easy, unthinking, spilling up his throat and past his lips while Gokudera’s scowl deepens, while the weight of his tipped-forward shoulders solidifies into a barrier.

“It’s not because it’s useful,” Yamamoto admits. Gokudera’s expression is settling deeper with every word Yamamoto says, but he’s not yelling yet, and that seems like a tentatively good sign. “It’s just because I like to do it.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes, huffs a scoff Yamamoto can hear clearly even over the distance between them. “What on earth is there to like about a fight that has no  _point_?”

“It’s not a fight,” Yamamoto says, risking coming a step closer. “It’s like…”

“A game?” Gokudera snaps, lashing the words out like they’re poison, like they’re explosives to extinguish Yamamoto’s good mood.

Yamamoto just laughs again, waves a hand to sweep aside the bite on the sound. “It’s like meditation.” He can still feel it in his veins, the steady focus of moving through familiar motions lingering as comfort in his blood. “Nothing else matters for a little while.”

Gokudera’s eyebrows unfold from the crease they’re making in the center of his forehead enough to allow one to raise skepticism at Yamamoto’s claim. “You like  _forgetting_  your responsibilities?”

“It’s not like that,” Yamamoto tries to clarify. “Don’t you ever want to just exist for a while?”

“ _No_ ,” Gokudera snaps, tipping away like Yamamoto’s insane and also contagious. “What’s so great about existence?”

“You should try it,” Yamamoto offers. “I could spar with you if you want.”

“Fuck off,” Gokudera says, predictably enough. “I’m not going to spend any more time with you than I already have to.” He doesn’t move, though, just keeps standing to the side of the door with his eyes dark against Yamamoto’s face like he’s daring the other to look away first.

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, not looking away. He can feel adrenaline hitting his veins, keeping his heart beating hard in his chest even as the flush of exercise evaporates off his skin. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Gokudera scoffs again, turns away with a toss of his head that catches his hair against his shoulder. “Don’t hold your breath, baseball idiot.”

“I’m just finishing,” Yamamoto offers as Gokudera reaches for the door. “Did you want the room?”

Gokudera’s shoulders stiffen. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, shoving the door open with more force than can possibly be necessary. “It’s not like I can’t come here anytime.” And he’s gone, retreating out the door and down the hallway before Yamamoto can think to ask why he was waiting if he was just going to come back later.

It’s alright. He’s pretty sure he wouldn’t have gotten an answer anyway.


	12. Instruction

“Jesus,” Gokudera says without looking up from his monitor as Yamamoto comes in the door of the office. “Don’t you have anywhere better to be than here?”

Yamamoto smiles even though Gokudera isn’t looking to see his expression, steps in over the distance to approach Gokudera’s side of the desk instead of his own. “Nope,” he admits, punctuating with the metallic click of the coffee can against the desk. The motion gets him a tilt of Gokudera’s chin, green eyes narrowing irritation at him through a cloud of smoke, and he retreats, stepping backwards to leave the coffee where he set it. He’s still smiling, helpless to the happiness in him that has very little to do with the early hour. “It’s more fun being here than alone in my apartment.”

Gokudera huffs and looks back at his computer monitor. With the other’s gaze trained on the display Yamamoto can watch his expression without getting caught, can let his gaze linger on the soft purse of Gokudera’s lips against his ever-present cigarette.

“Glad you’re having fun,” Gokudera says without a trace of sincerity in the words. When he reaches out sideways his rings click off the metal of the can before he braces the edges between his thumb and middle finger and hooks his index finger under the pulltab to crack the can open without looking. Yamamoto can see the tendons in his wrist tighten unconsciously as he braces the can in place against the force. “Entertainment is always a high priority here.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto says, watching the white cuff of Gokudera’s sleeve slide from under the black of his coat as he fits his fingers against the cylinder of the can. “The company’s a lot better.”

Gokudera snorts. When he moves it’s smooth, shows off the well-practiced coordination of taking his cigarette from his mouth with one hand and lifting the coffee can to his lips with the other. He tips back, too, leaning away from the monitor and glancing over the desk at Yamamoto; Yamamoto pulls his gaze up from the way the can fits against Gokudera’s lips and focuses in on the shading of his eyes instead. It doesn’t feel much safer.

“Yeah, well,” Gokudera says after a pause while he swallows and reinstates his cigarette. “I wouldn’t want to have just you for company either.” Then, quick, while Yamamoto is still raising his eyebrows and starting to grin at the insult: “What the fuck do you have against ties?”

“Huh?” Yamamoto looks down involuntarily, reaches to touch the loosened knot of his tie where it’s hanging an inch below the top-fastened button of his shirt. “Nothing?”

Gokudera inhales off his cigarette, blows a cloud of aggravated smoke to hang over the table. “Why would you subject anything to that horrific excuse for a knot?”

“Oh.” Yamamoto curls his fingers in against the lopsided knot, looks up to offer a conspiratorial smile. He gets a scowl in return, the expression deepening a crease of irritation between Gokudera’s eyebrows, but he didn’t really expect anything else, after all. “I’m not actually very good at tying ties.” He shrugs, lets his smile spread wider as Gokudera’s expression darkens. “I just do it once every few days to save time.”

“ _What_ ,” Gokudera says, enunciating the word with aggressive, deliberate force. “Are you  _kidding_.”

Yamamoto lets his tie go, tips back in his chair to clasp his hands together at the back of his head. “Nope. It was never all that important for baseball.”

“What about for  _school_ ,” Gokudera says, still sounding somewhere between appalled and furious.

“I went without,” Yamamoto admits. “No one minded that much.”

“You,” Gokudera says. “I don’t  _believe_  you.”

Yamamoto is aware that he is probably supposed to be cringing away from the heat in Gokudera’s stare and the snap of ire in his voice. The smile that is threatening the curve of his lips is  _definitely_  not the right response, and in no way repressible even knowing that. “Why does it matter so much anyway?”

“Appearances matter,” Gokudera snaps in instant response to this apparent absurdity. He tosses his head, the silver of his hair falling back from his features, and when he takes the cigarette from his lips it’s to crush it out against the ashtray by his hand. “Pay attention,” he orders, like Yamamoto’s attention hasn’t been entirely focused on him since he came in, and reaches for the neat knot of his own tie to tug it loose. The dark of the fabric slides free at the easy drag of his fingers, unfolding itself like it was just waiting to be asked; Gokudera’s collar looks very pale against the line of his throat without it.

“Undo that mess,” Gokudera snaps, waving a hand across the desk to vaguely indicate Yamamoto’s own tie. “And button up your collar. Have you  _ever_  properly dressed yourself?”

“It’s not as comfortable when they’re all done up,” Yamamoto tries to explain, but he’s tipping his head back to obey anyway, certain enough in Gokudera’s response to not wait for a reprieve that won’t come.

The humorless huff that he gets says he was right in this assumption. “It’s not about  _comfort_ ,” Gokudera says as Yamamoto struggles to fit the topmost button through the collar-stiff buttonhole. “It’s about responsibility.”

Yamamoto laughs without meaning to, the burst of sound in his throat overshadowing even his victory over his collar. “Clothes are about responsibility?” When he looks back down Gokudera is glaring at him.

“ _Yes_ ,” he bites off. “Appearances are  _important_.” His hair is sliding back over his shoulder, a lock of it falling forward to frame his scowl. “They let people know whose side you’re on.”

Yamamoto blinks. “Like a baseball uniform.”

“ _No_ ,” Gokudera snaps, negation so fast it must be reflex. Then he stops, his mouth twisting out of his usual scowl and into something different, like he’s trying to frown and laugh at the same time. Yamamoto only sees the expression for a moment before Gokudera gets his hand up over his face to hide the color of his eyes and the shift of his mouth behind his palm.

“Fuck,” he says, the sound faintly muffled by his fingers. “Yeah, sure, baseball freak, it’s like a goddamn uniform.” When his hand drops he looks normal again, the only difference in his expression that the crease across his forehead is faintly shallower. “Shut up and listen.”

Yamamoto has been told how to tie a tie before. His father used to walk him through it, for the occasional school events too important to forgo that particular aspect of the dress code, and he looks up videos occasionally when he’s struggling through doing it himself. But he doesn’t move through the motions frequently enough for the pattern to stick, is never interested enough in what he’s watching for it to linger in his memory.

He’s interested now. Gokudera’s talking, offering some remarkably detailed description of exactly what he’s doing, and how, and why it’s important for the final result, but Yamamoto isn’t really listening, at least not to anything but the growl of Gokudera’s voice in his ears. He’s watching Gokudera’s fingers instead, staring at the way the light catches off the silver of two of his rings when he sweeps the dark of his tie in around itself, at the practiced motion of his thumb as he feeds the loose end of the silk in through the loop he’s created. It’s easy enough to mirror the motions, even if they feel clumsy and unfamiliar in Yamamoto’s hands, even if it feels more like he’s winding his tie into an incomprehensible knot instead of the clean lines Gokudera is making of his. Then Gokudera braces his fingers against the edges of his tie, presses his fingers to the trailing end, and when he tugs with one clean motion of certainty the loops and twists he’s been creating collapse in on themselves, fall into alignment like they are where they were always meant to be as he cinches the fabric up at the pale curve of his throat.

“There,” he says, and Yamamoto looks up from his fingers to his eyes, his attention catching on the sharp edge of that scowl again. “Just tighten it.”

Yamamoto curls his fingers in around the knot of fabric he’s made, cradling the silk against the cage of his hand. “Like this?” When he pulls on the loose end he can feel the fabric sliding over itself, slotting into place in one smooth glide; the feeling is foreign enough that it draws his attention down, brings his eyes into focus on what he is quite sure is the best knot he’s ever made in a tie.

“Yeah,” Gokudera says from the other side of the desk. When Yamamoto looks up he’s not frowning at all, is gazing at the other’s tie without a trace of tension in his forehead. He reaches for his coffee, tips his head back for another swallow. “Now tighten it against your collar and you’ll look halfway respectable.”

“Thanks,” Yamamoto says, watching Gokudera as he slides the knot up to press against the top button of his newly fastened collar. “That was a lot easier with you showing me.”

“Of course it was,” Gokudera says. His mouth is softer, the corner of it curving up into what is very nearly a smile as he considers the knot of Yamamoto’s tie. His eyes come up, catch on Yamamoto watching him, and he does smile, then, a sharp-edged thing that lights his eyes bright with self-satisfaction. “I’m a great teacher.”

“My goodness.” From the door, that, a purring hum of sound that makes Gokudera visibly startle and brings Yamamoto’s gaze around to where Mukuro is just coming into the room, Chrome trailing him with a hand against his sleeve. “You two certainly seem to be getting along.”

“Morning,” Yamamoto offers at the same time that Gokudera snaps, “What the  _fuck_  are you talking about, Mukuro?” with enough venom to bring Yamamoto’s attention back to his expression. He’s scowling again, glaring dark and furious from under his hair; the shadow is nearly enough to hide the flush of color high in his cheeks from embarrassment or rage, Yamamoto’s not sure which.

Mukuro doesn’t clarify. He offers a smile instead, a laugh so knowing it entirely cuts off the possibility of sharing in his amusement. Gokudera keeps glaring at him while he sits down at his own desk and doesn’t look back to his own screen until Mukuro starts typing with every indication of absorption in what he’s doing.

Yamamoto keeps watching Gokudera. He doesn’t make eye contact again, to smile or frown or glare, but he doesn’t light another cigarette either, and after a moment he reaches out for the coffee again, takes another drink without any sign of self-consciousness about it. It’s not until the can has hit the desk again that Yamamoto looks back at his own blank screen and pulls up the report he left half-done the night before.

Even with the unfamiliar tension of the knot against his collar, it’s impossible to keep from smiling.


	13. Clouded

“This is stupid,” Gokudera says without turning around. “Why the  _fuck_  am I always the one who’s babysitting you?”

Yamamoto smiles at the back of Gokudera’s head since the other isn’t watching him, reminds himself not for the first time that he’s really intended to be watching his surroundings and not the Enforcer leading the patrol. “I guess Tsuna thinks we make a good team.”

“Of course the Chief has an excellent reason.” Gokudera backtracks so quickly his words are nearly overlaying Yamamoto’s. “I’m sure it’s because he knows he can trust me to keep you out of trouble.”

“Sure,” Yamamoto agrees without any heat in the capitulation. It’s hard to get irritated with Gokudera at any time, and right now the pleasure of the other’s company is more than enough to counterbalance his ever-insulting tongue. Gokudera glances back at him, the threat of a glare in his expression as if he thinks Yamamoto might be mocking him; Yamamoto isn’t sure he’s completely appeased by the innocent happiness clear on his expression, but Gokudera settles on a huff of irritation and turns his attention back to scanning the streets around them.

The patrols are always boring. They’re a relic, Hibari explained once in the faintly bored tone he always takes when speaking about something other than hunting down a criminal, a holdover from before there were scanners on every street corner and stopping crime was more a matter of luck than calculation. But it’s important to be seen, apparently, and besides there are always corners that run just shy of the scanners, routes through the city that allow the possibility of sidestepping the System, even if the likelihood of someone successfully managing such a maneuver is all but zero. The process of checking those hiding spots -- and of being seen by a content populace -- is the matter of a few hours and at least a pair of officers, an Enforcer in the event of an actual problem and an Inspector to watch the Enforcer. Yamamoto doesn’t mind, even if the process itself is rather dull; he thinks anything would be interesting if he was doing it with Gokudera, and the other’s tendency to take the lead means he can get away with watching Gokudera for far longer than the Enforcer’s patience usually allows.

He’s not sure how long it’s been -- a few minutes, at least, maybe closer to a half hour -- when Gokudera speaks again, jarring Yamamoto from his attention to the steady-tense angle of the other’s shoulders and the way his hair catches into the color of white gold in the sunlight.

“Why  _did_  you join?” It’s softer than Gokudera’s voice usually is, something far closer to an ordinary speaking tone than the growl he typically sustains on Yamamoto’s behalf. “You were a big deal in baseball, weren’t you? Why would you leave something like that for  _this_?”

Yamamoto blinks at the back of Gokudera’s head. The other isn’t turning to face him; from his angle he can’t get a read on Gokudera’s expression at all.

“I was okay at baseball, I guess,” he says, attempting to sidestep the question.

There’s a huff of air from in front of him, a sound that would be a laugh were it not so weighted with skepticism. “ _Okay_ ,” Gokudera repeats, his voice lacing the word with sarcasm. “You graduated high school with offers from three separate teams and you were  _okay_.”

“Ha, well,” Yamamoto starts before his brain catches up with what Gokudera just said. “Huh, you knew about my baseball record?”

“ _No_ ,” Gokudera snaps, a little too fast and a little too loud. His shoulders are hunching, now, coming up to catch the trailing ends of his hair. “I  _hate_  baseball.”

Yamamoto frowns confusion, his forehead creasing into suspicion as thrilling as it is unfamiliar. “So you--”

“Shut up,” Gokudera bites off. “It’s not like I have anything else to do with my time except research. Besides, I didn’t know anything about you other than that you were a fucking idiot.” He ducks his head, fiddles needlessly with the Dominator at his hip; his hair is mostly in front of his face but Yamamoto can still make out the flush of red staining his cheeks, can hear the strain on his voice when he clears his throat. “And I  _still_  don’t. You had it made, you had the perfect life, why the fuck would you join the fuck-ups and failures?”

Yamamoto can feel the chill against his skin, a prickle of adrenaline that stiffens his shoulders and pulls the smile from his mouth. He has to take a breath before he can answer, has to reach for the misleading truth that’s the closest he can come to a lie, and when he says, “Ha, well, I wanted a change, you know?” he knows it’s not good enough even before Gokudera’s steps stall to a halt.

“What’s wrong with you?” Gokudera asks, turning to look back at last. His flush is gone, his eyes narrowed on suspicion; there’s tension at his mouth, the start of a frown but mostly just a line of concentration, like if he stares hard enough he can take Yamamoto apart through sheer force of will. “You sound weird.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, feeling a little breathless and a lot resigned. He lets his forced smile go, dips his head so he can take a breath for what is to come. “Sorry,” he says to the sidewalk, looks back up with a curve to his mouth that tastes like self-deprecation. “I’m not very good at lying, I guess.”

“You’re not,” Gokudera agrees immediately. He’s turned around entirely, now, only a suggestion of a diagonal to his shoulders keeping him from fully facing Yamamoto, and his eyes are focused enough to pin the other in place. “What the fuck is it?” There’s a strain in his voice, tension Yamamoto almost never hears. It reminds him of the weight of a bomb in his hand, of green eyes gone wide with fright and a rough voice breaking on panic.

“I did join a baseball team,” Yamamoto says, hearing the words at a great distance, like it’s someone else talking. They feel loud, loud enough to echo off the walls around them, but Gokudera isn’t telling him to be quiet, isn’t even rolling his eyes at the obvious introduction; he’s just staring, his expression falling into the taut-drawn attention Yamamoto sometimes sees from across the desk in the office, when Gokudera is so distracted by what he’s doing that he’s let his cigarette burn itself out and hasn’t lit a new one.

“It was great,” Yamamoto goes on, simple sentences, a simple story. “I was doing what I wanted to do.” He huffs a laugh; there’s an urge to duck his head, to break away from the near-painful intensity of Gokudera’s stare, but the hold of the other’s eyes is stronger than the impulse, keeps his head up even as he’s flinching in anticipation of the judgment to come.

“I was supposed to be happy,” he says, his words echoing inside his head, now. “But I wasn’t.” He shrugs, one shoulder moving to push aside all the judgment of that, this statement that the System was wrong, that there’s something not-quite-right about the inside of his head. “I went to practice and I went to games and sometimes I had public appearances and it was just.” He takes a breath, lets it out in a rush. “It felt pointless. Nothing I was doing mattered at all, whether we won or lost or I played or didn’t.” His laugh is involuntary, a spill of sound he can’t feel across numb lips. “They had me start seeing a therapist, when my Hue got bad enough that I couldn’t pass the pre-game Scan. My Coefficient never went up very high, but.” He takes a breath, lets it out in a rush that carries the worst of the tension in his shoulders with it, lets them sag into relief if not comfort as yet. “I had to quit the team. It took months before my Hue cleared enough for me to stop daily therapy sessions.” Yamamoto tips his head, reaches for the smile he remembers from a lunch with Tsuna, the mention of  _we’re always short on Inspectors_  offering the suggestion he needed. “And then I joined the Bureau. I felt like the things I could do here might matter.” One more breath, one more exhale. “That’s why I joined.”

There is a very long pause. If Gokudera weren’t still staring at him with that strange blankness on his face Yamamoto would think he had stopped listening somewhere along the way. Then Gokudera clears his throat, still watching Yamamoto’s eyes intently, and says, “Does the Chief know?”

“I don’t know,” Yamamoto says truthfully. “I’ve never told him directly. He probably suspects.”

Gokudera tosses his head, tips his chin back with a hint of his usual defensiveness. “I’m sure he knows,” he says, audibly attempting a rough irritation to his voice. “The Chief is good at figuring things out on his own.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto says. “Yeah.”

Neither of them say anything for another minute. Gokudera just keeps staring, looking a little like he’s forgotten what he’s doing or forgotten that Yamamoto can see the focus all across his face. His frown is softer than usual, less brittle and more thoughtful, like he’s lost track of what his mouth is doing for the rapidity of the thoughts in his head.

Then, without any warning: “Come on then,” and he’s turning back around, resuming his pace down the sidewalk so abruptly Yamamoto takes a minute to catch up and has to jog a handful of strides before they’re back in sync. There’s a few moments of silence but for the sound of their footfalls on the pavement; then Gokudera coughs, clears his throat again, and growls, “Baseball idiot,” with the faintest suggestion of gentleness on the words.

When Yamamoto starts smiling again, it’s so soft he’s glad Gokudera can’t see him.


	14. Smoulder

“Keep your eyes on the target,” the Enforcer insists, his voice so loud it catches the suggestion of an echo off the enclosed walls of the firing range. “You need to devote your full attention to this.”

“I know,” Yamamoto says, his voice coming at what feels like a great distance from his body. He’s not seeing his trainer’s scowl in his periphery, isn’t listening for the suggestion of repeated sound bouncing back from the walls; all his attention is on the shape of the target at the other end of the range, the distant mark seeming to grow larger as his vision centers on it. The Dominator in his hands is part of his arms, an extension of his body; the blue wash over his vision is normal, to be expected, a necessary part of the process. The crosshairs line up over his target -- a finger, this time, the barely visible outline of a pinky on the target’s form -- and go still as if locked in place. Yamamoto takes a breath, lets it out slow and steady, and when he squeezes the trigger of the Dominator it’s with empty lungs and blank thoughts. The light flashes, the target burns briefly blue to indicate a hit, and Yamamoto takes an inhale of relief while his trainer growls wordless approval.

“Again,” he says. “The right ear.”

Yamamoto takes a moment to steady his feet, to let the tension of focus slide out of his shoulders; then he takes another lungful of air, starts to raise the Dominator to the target, and the door to the training room comes open.

“ _You_ ,” the Enforcer snaps, earning himself an echo in truth while Yamamoto is still startling to look at the newcomer. “What the hell are you doing?”

Yamamoto recognizes the scoffing response before he has entirely processed the fall of silver hair, the spark of green eyes. “Fuck you, Squalo,” Gokudera growls, dropping the door to let it slam shut behind him. “The range isn’t just for your ridiculous training sessions.”

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto blurts, the focused distance of training evaporating from his veins to make space for the involuntary smile that breaks across his face instead. “Are you here to practice too?”

“Stay focused,” Squalo snaps without looking at him. “We’re not here for  _chatting_.”

“This is stupid,” Gokudera comments, striding in to take up his usual position at the wall before he pulls his box of cigarettes from his pocket and retrieves one. “You don’t need this sort of accuracy in the field.”

Squalo growls, his voice jumping to volumes more suited for outdoors than the inside of a small room. “This is an  _art_.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes, brings a lighter to the end of his cigarette. Yamamoto watches the edge of his coat sleeve slide away from his shirt, stares at the unconscious angle of his wrist as he braces the cigarette for the catch of the lighter. “Fine. Carry on with your  _art_  then, I don’t care how you waste your time.”

There’s a pause, Squalo and Yamamoto both staring at Gokudera -- the one with a scowl, the other with the smoke-hazy distraction Gokudera always brings with him -- and Gokudera watching his cigarette as the paper flares and catches. When he looks up it’s at Yamamoto, the spark of his eyes hotter than the flame from his lighter, and Yamamoto can feel the heat curl and cling to the edges of his thoughts to turn them warm and smouldering.

“ _You_ ,” Squalo shouts, and Yamamoto jumps, startled out of his distraction by the jolt of adrenaline to his system. “ _Pay attention_.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto says, and “Right,” and turns back around as if turning his back to Gokudera will allow him to forget about the other’s company.

He does try to pay attention. Reaching for the drifting calm of absolute focus has never worked before, but he attempts it anyway, struggles to ignore the heat of the stare he is sure is fixed at the back of his neck, burning like painless fire skidding over his skin. He makes his next shot, misses the next three in a row, manages the next more out of luck than anything else, and that’s when Squalo groans and declares, “I’m done with you” as if it’s far more permanent than the stop for the day Yamamoto knows it to be.

“Sorry,” Yamamoto offers as he lowers the Dominator and blinks the blue from his gaze. “I have other things on my mind, I guess.”

Squalo scoffs. “You’ll never be a master if you don’t dedicate yourself to it completely,” he insists. “You shouldn’t let  _anything_  distract you.” Then, while Yamamoto is still opening his mouth to offer another apology, or maybe a half-formed attempt at explanation, he turns away, rounding on Gokudera. “And  _you_.” Squalo takes a step in, too close for comfort, and Yamamoto can see Gokudera’s shoulders tense, the expectation of a fight writing itself into the sudden dip of a frown on his lips and the hunch of his shoulders.

“Hey now--” Yamamoto starts, taking a step forward with his hands out in a half-formed attempt to stave off whatever is coming, but Squalo just raises his voice and speaks right over any mediation Yamamoto might offer.

“Stop  _distracting_  him.” It’s clear, loud in the room, without so much as a suggestion of a hiss to make it ostensibly private. “He could be exceptional if he weren’t thinking about you watching him the whole damn time.”

Yamamoto can see the color drain out of Gokudera’s face, his eyes going wide with shock for the first moment; then they darken, narrow into anger, and Yamamoto is just bracing himself for an explosion when Squalo turns and strides towards the door without so much as a farewell to see him off. Gokudera stares after him for a moment, irritation fading from his features; when he looks back he catches Yamamoto watching him. Gokudera’s expression is strange in the absence of his usual scowl, his eyes wider, his mouth softer; even the angle of his chin looks easier, gentle instead of its typical aggressive tilt. Then he tips his head down, his hair falling into his face, and when he says, “I’m going back to the office,” he sounds very nearly like himself again.

“I’ll come with you,” Yamamoto offers, not sure if it was intended as an invitation but too anxious for hope to let the opportunity go.

“Whatever,” Gokudera says, turning towards the door before he tosses his hair back and lifts his chin into its usual stubborn tilt.

It would be enough to hide his flush if Yamamoto weren’t looking for the color.


	15. Unsaid

“I don’t need company just to eat dinner,” Gokudera insists from the other side of the cafeteria table. “Don’t you ever go home?”

Yamamoto shrugs, the threat of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth like it does almost all the time, now. “Guess not.” Gokudera’s hunched in over the table to better shadow the stare he’s directing Yamamoto’s way; Yamamoto leans back to contrast, kicking one leg out under the table and into the footspace of the unused chair on Gokudera’s left. “It’s more fun to hang out here anyway.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera growls, the insult worn inoffensive by too much repetition. “Just because you work for the Bureau doesn’t mean you have to  _live_  here.”

“I like being here,” Yamamoto says. “There’s always something exciting happening. And everyone’s so interesting.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes. “You like everything,” he points out, not without reason. “You even like that fucking crazy Enforcer from the department down the hall.”

“Squalo?” Yamamoto laughs. “Sure. He’s really good with the Dominator, you know?”

“Doesn’t mean he’s  _likeable_.” Gokudera looks down at his plate, stabs at his food with unwarranted aggression.

“Everyone’s likeable if you get to know them,” Yamamoto says easily. Gokudera’s hair is tied back, drawn up in a ponytail against the back of his collar; he’s been focused on his computer all day, so absorbed in whatever he was working on that he didn’t even spare a moment to glare at Yamamoto for staring at him or to growl irritation when Hibari walked out in the middle of a conversation with Tsuna. Yamamoto keeps looking at the elastic around the silver strands, keeps wondering how angry Gokudera would be if he tugged it free, keeps thinking it might be worth it.

“Huh,” Gokudera scoffs, still watching his food and not Yamamoto watching him. “I bet you even like Mukuro.”

Yamamoto smiles. “Mukuro’s not so bad.”

Gokudera does look up then, fixes Yamamoto with a flat stare of disbelief. “You’re fucking kidding,” he deadpans. “ _Rokudo_  Mukuro, right? Works in our department? The fucking asshole?”

“He can be kind of nasty,” Yamamoto allows. “But he’s good at his job. And he really cares about Chrome.”

“Fine,” Gokudera snaps. “Anyone who cares about  _anyone else_  is worth liking, then? How the fuck do you explain Hibari?”

Yamamoto laughs, this time. “Hibari’s true to himself.”

“That explains Sasagawa too, I suppose,” Gokudera groans.

“And I’ve known Tsuna forever,” Yamamoto doesn’t-quite-finish, watching the way Gokudera’s pulled-back hair is falling into almost a curl against the back of his collar.

“Of course,” Gokudera says, and he’s looking down at his plate again. “The Chief is amazing.” It’s his usual variety of stated loyalty, perfectly in line with the sort of thing he musters at the least opportunity; if it sounds a little flat, a little bit like something recited by rote while his thoughts are elsewhere, Yamamoto can understand.

They both know perfectly well whose name he hasn’t mentioned.

There’s a pause, the moment weighting itself with silence; Yamamoto keeps watching Gokudera, his gaze tracing out the familiar lines of the other’s face, the shift of his eyelashes, the curve of his lips, the dip of his chin recommending continued quiet instead of further confession. Yamamoto hasn’t decided yet whether to take this recommendation, when Gokudera clears his throat and looks up, the usual sharpness of his gaze reinstated in full.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says, and his voice is back to normal too, the irritation in his throat audible and as familiar as a smile from someone else would be.

“Sure,” Yamamoto agrees, letting his internal debate dissipate into the easy reassurance of a smile. “Those look really good, can I try one?”

“What?” Gokudera says, which is sufficient time for Yamamoto to reach over the table and take one of the croquettes he has at the corner of his plate. “Hey!” He tries to catch at Yamamoto’s hand, his reactions too slow to stall the action, and Yamamoto grins even as the steam from the too-hot bite burns against the inside of his mouth and demands a breathless huff of air to cool it.

The glare of Gokudera’s attention is worth the heat.


	16. Support

“Yamamoto, Hibari, Gokudera, can you still read me?”

Tsuna’s voice over the radio is fainter than it has been; the static picks up with every floor they descend, the white noise offering a threat to the clarity of the words, if not causing total unintelligibility as yet. Yamamoto is lifting his hand to offer a response when Gokudera cuts him off.

“We’re still hearing you clearly, Chief.” The words are crisp, bitten off into professional focus; Gokudera doesn’t even turn around from the lead he’s taking a few feet ahead of Yamamoto. The hand not pressing against the radio in his ear is tense on the handle of his Dominator. “At least the idiot and I are.”

“Hibari’s gone on ahead,” Yamamoto steps in, before Gokudera’s focused attention can give way to the irritation he’s been framing for the last several seconds ever since Hibari strode off down the hall in complete disregard of Tsuna’s order to stay together.

“I’m here,” Hibari’s voice cuts in. He must be some ways ahead; Yamamoto can’t even hear the echo of his voice in the hallway in front of them. “There’s nothing worth bothering with back there.”

“Hibari--” Tsuna’s voice sighs, but Gokudera is cutting over him, the angle of his hand against his ear going sharp with irritation.

“The goal isn’t to rush through a sloppy job,” he growls, so low Yamamoto can feel the hum of the sound against his teeth. “We’re supposed to be  _thorough_.”

“I am fully capable of being both fast and thorough,” Hibari’s voice flatlines into the radio. “If you can’t keep up you can head back to the office like a good little dog.”

“ _You_ \--” Gokudera starts before Yamamoto can take the step forward he needs to catch at Gokudera’s wrist and pull his fingers away from the radio receiver.

“Got it,” he says into his own radio in a deliberately cheerful tone. “We’ll head down the stairs to the next floor and check that while Hibari finishes this one.”

“Let  _go_  of me,” Gokudera hisses, dragging his wrist free of Yamamoto’s hold with the flare of color in his eyes clear even in the minimal ambient lighting. Yamamoto flashes an apologetic smile and lifts his hands up in surrender as Tsuna says “That sounds like a great idea” in tones of intense relief. “Take your time, we’re in no rush.”

“Of course,” Gokudera offers into the radio, his voice remarkably even given the glare he still has pinned on Yamamoto. “We’re on our way now, Chief.” He pivots on his heel to head back down the hallway, passing close enough by Yamamoto that their sleeves brush together as he goes. It takes Yamamoto a moment longer to turn himself around, another to catch Gokudera up, and then they’re rounding the corner and back in the industrial concrete of the stairwell to the next floor down.

“Fucking  _Hibari_ ,” Gokudera seethes, his words catching echoes off the walls to match the pattern of his boots hitting the steps as they descend. “Thinks he’s so much better than everyone else.” This is mostly true, as far as Yamamoto has seen, and besides Gokudera has that tone that says he’s too irritable to be talked down logically; better to let him burn himself out on anger than draw the focus of his ire around to Yamamoto.

“Mm,” Yamamoto offers noncommittally as Gokudera shoves at the door to the next level with more force than is at all necessary. It flies open, clanging against the hallway wall, and it’s only Yamamoto throwing out a hand to catch it that saves it from ricocheting shut again.

“Goddamnit,” Gokudera growls, ducking under Yamamoto’s arm without thanks. He lifts a hand to his radio, offers a “Chief? You reading us?” into the receiver. Yamamoto can hear it clearly, the words echoing themselves into a momentary overlap of the radio and Gokudera’s voice, but there’s an odd flatness when Gokudera lets the button go, the line hanging dead as they continue down the hall.

“And we’re out of radio range,” Gokudera growls. “Of fucking course.”

“It’s fine,” Yamamoto offers, stepping in closer than he probably should given Gokudera’s current mood. “At least we have each other for backup, right?”

Gokudera glances back at him, his mouth set into his usual frown and his eyes narrowed with irritation, and Yamamoto braces himself for rejection, an insult regarding his person or his ability or his general existence to bleed off some of Gokudera’s obvious frustration. In comparison to what he is expecting, Gokudera’s snapped “It’s just checking out an abandoned building. We shouldn’t even  _need_  backup” is remarkably calm, in spite of the bite under the words.

“Ha, yeah,” Yamamoto agrees readily, matching his pace to Gokudera’s since the other voiced no protest and since this holds him close enough to catch a glimpse of the other’s face on alternate strides instead of just the shift of his shoulders under his coat. “But just in case, right?”

“Shut up,” Gokudera tells him, drawing the Dominator from his hip as they approach the first door in the hallway. There’s less tension in his shoulders, now, his stride is a little closer to its usual fluidity as he reaches for the handle; Yamamoto smiles quiet victory and falls back a step to allow Gokudera space to draw the door open.

He doesn’t realize what has happened, at first. There’s pressure crushing against him, as if he had run headfirst into an invisible wall instead of just standing in an empty hallway. For a moment it’s overwhelming, presses his eyes shut instinctively and knocks his body limp with capitulation. Then the ringing kicks in, his ears aching like all the air in the room has started to hum, and then he realizes he’s against the wall with the weight of the door pinning his arm, and it’s  _then_ that he feels the pain. It’s sharp, bright and clear and far more demanding than the ache at the back of his head or the dull throb from his overstimulated ears; when he looks down he can trace it to the arm pinned behind the door, the unnatural angle of his wrist as the weight slides free by an inch enough to promise broken bones and an explanation for the hurt throbbing up his arm.

“Ow,” he says, so faintly he can’t hear it over the buzz in his ears, the pain crushing the air out of his lungs and stealing the possibility of breath.

Then “ _Fuck_ ,” from the other wall, a familiar voice made strange by strain, and Yamamoto twists so fast his vision blurs. It’s Gokudera, he knows it is even before he can see straight, but there’s a weird low note to the sound of his voice, something trembling under the usual steady flow of his words. He’s lying on the ground, Yamamoto sees as he blinks the smoke of what must have been an explosion from his vision; there’s no blood that he can see, either under Gokudera or on the wall behind him, but his shoulders are hunched, his head tipped down so Yamamoto can’t see his face.

“Fuck,” he says again, almost a shout this time, and then he lifts his head to glare into the smoke. From where he’s fallen Yamamoto can’t see into the room, but it’s not the possibility of an attacker that catches his breath, not even the pain from his arm now lancing up to his shoulder. It’s the angle of Gokudera’s shoulders, the crease between his brows and the brittle focus in his eyes, and it’s the way his mouth is open, parted on a hiss of pain instead of a growl of fury.

“ _Gokudera_ ,” Yamamoto hears himself say, lunges forward and away from the wall without thinking about his arm. The pain shoots up to his shoulder, shuddering along his spine, but he’s in reach anyway, he’s stretching out to grab at Gokudera’s shoulder through the haze of the smoke.

Gokudera doesn’t look at him. He’s staring into the room, his eyes wide with an attempt to see the interior; when he lifts his hands he’s still holding the Dominator, still aiming it along his line of sight even if he’s flat on the ground, even if his grip is visibly shaking. Yamamoto’s hand lands on his shoulder, Gokudera’s head swings towards him; and there’s movement, a rush of smoke out of the open door, and Gokudera is shouting something unintelligible, is firing a blind shot of blue into the haze. Everything lights up for a moment, the particles in the air reflecting the light into an eerie glow, and a figure bursts out of the doorway, swinging around the corner so fast only dropping flat to the floor saves Yamamoto’s face from a kick. The kick connects with his injured arm instead, knocking him onto his back and breathless with excruciating pain for a moment, and the attacker leaps over him and sprints down the hallway towards the stairwell.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera spits as Yamamoto jerks back upright, reaching for coherency amidst the blinding pain. Another burst of light, this one far wide, and when Gokudera snaps “Fuck” again it sounds very nearly like a sob.

Yamamoto twists, reaches out. His own Dominator is at his hip, still strapped in place, precious seconds away and impossible to retrieve in time. But Gokudera’s is out, is locked on, and when his fingers close over the handle the comparative steadiness of his grip makes pulling it from the other’s hold an easy matter. Gokudera protests, something rushed and desperate and anxious, but Yamamoto is sitting up, dropping his shoulders back the way Gokudera taught him, letting his vision narrow on the target’s back as he’s practiced over the past weeks with Squalo. He breathes in, fills his lungs with air as he steadies his aim one-handed; then out, his exhale steady as the target lopes down the hallway. He’s stumbling fast, nearing the corner, and Yamamoto’s breathing pauses and his arm goes perfectly steady.

He knows his shot will hit before he sees the blue flash, before the attacker goes stiff in the tension of paralysis. There is no reason for the second shot he fires, or the third, or the fourth, except that his finger is still pressing down, the adrenaline in his veins surging hot and focused into the tension of his hand. It’s not until the attacker falls that Yamamoto can blink his eyes back into focus, can hear the sound of Gokudera’s pained but present breathing behind him, can remember how to take an inhale. The air tastes like smoke.

“What the  _fuck_  were you doing?” Gokudera demands, the words cutting the clearer for the after-image silence of the explosion. Yamamoto twists to look at him; Gokudera is glaring at him, his frown looking nearly ordinary if it weren’t for the way he’s still lying on the floor, the way his mouth is twisting around repressed pain.

“You’re hurt,” Yamamoto says instead of answering Gokudera’s question.

“I’m fine,” Gokudera growls, angling an arm under himself to shove upright before Yamamoto can stop him. Yamamoto can see Gokudera’s jaw tense, his chin dip down to hide behind the curtain of his hair, and he’s reaching out, the Dominator dropping from uncaring fingers as Gokudera’s breathing turns into a shallow-sharp hiss and he falls against the support of Yamamoto’s hand at his side.

“What hurts?” Yamamoto asks, sliding in closer over the floor. His arm is still aching but his heart is going too fast to spare time to notice, all his attention has been given over to looking for blood or injury of something other than the awful white of pain he can see turning Gokudera’s lips bloodless.

“Get off me,” Gokudera says, but the words sound like recitation, formed of obligation rather than any real anger, and when he shoves at Yamamoto’s shoulder it turns into a grab at his jacket instead of the rejection it’s intended as. “I’m  _fine_ , let me go.”

“You’re not fine,” Yamamoto insists. Gokudera is ducking his head, his hair tangling in front of his face, but it’s not enough to hide the grimace of pain when he tries to lean away for a moment before tipping back in against Yamamoto’s hold. “What  _happened_ , Gokudera?”

Yamamoto doesn’t mean for his voice to comes out like it does, low and demanding and rough in a way he’s never heard himself sound before. He sounds older, insistent with the thrum of resonance in his throat, and Gokudera looks up at him before he can apologize, his eyes wide and shocked and clear in a way that stalls out anything Yamamoto might have said. It’s only for a moment; then Gokudera ducks his head again, hides behind his hair, and answers.

“I hit the fucking wall,” he says, his voice still rough like he’s attempting his usual growl but coming out breathlessly high around the shape of pain. “It’s my back, it hurts to sit up.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, all the adrenaline-fueled frustration in his veins evaporating to the chill of panic. “Gokudera, we have to get you to a hospital.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps, lifting his head enough to jerk his chin towards Yamamoto’s other shoulder. “You can’t use that arm at all, can you?”

“I still have my right,” Yamamoto says, shifting his arm into a steadier hold around Gokudera’s waist. “We’ll get you out.”

“Fuck,” Gokudera says. “This is fucking  _stupid_ ” but he’s fitting his arm around Yamamoto’s shoulders, tightening his fingers against Yamamoto’s jacket as his sleeve presses at the back of the other’s neck, and that’s enough agreement for Yamamoto to pull them upright. Gokudera makes a weird sound at the motion, a gasping, choking inhale against Yamamoto’s shoulder, but he’s got his head turned down and Yamamoto is very sure he doesn’t want to see the pain written across the other’s features anymore than Gokudera wants him to. He keeps looking ahead instead, even if his hold on the other’s waist goes tighter with each hissed not-quite-sob against his jacket, even if Gokudera’s grip on his coat leaves him to carry the majority of the other’s weight as well as his own.

It takes minutes before they make it into the stairwell and can pick up the radio signal again to call for backup for the Paralyzed attacker and medical support for themselves. By the time they hear the sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs towards them, shouts carried over the radio as well as by the echoes in the enclosed space, Yamamoto can feel the warmth of Gokudera pressed against him more clearly than the spreading ache in his arm.


	17. Trying

Yamamoto is having a remarkably hard time opening the door to Gokudera’s hospital room. Part of this is because he’s trying to be quiet -- he’s not sure if the other is awake or not and he doesn’t have any intention of interrupting his recovery if he’s asleep. Part of it is that he’s trying to balance a container of sushi in the crook of his elbow, attempting to keep it more or less upright to ensure the rather precarious balance of the lid doesn’t give way to a mess all across the floor. And most of it is that he’s doing this one-handed, trying to ease the handle down and nudge the door open while keeping the cast holding his left arm immobile and out of harm’s way.

He might have managed to succeed, given enough time. As it is he fumbles for a minute, two, five, and then there’s a growl of “Just fucking come  _in_ , idiot” that effectively removes any need to attempt quiet during the process.

Yamamoto’s laughing as he finally gets the door open and comes forward into the room. Gokudera is glaring at him from the blinding-white sheets of the bed, looking if anything more irritated in the unfamiliar surroundings than he usually manages in the office or out on assignment. His gaze drops to the box tucked against Yamamoto’s arm, skids to the other’s cast, and Yamamoto can see his mouth go tight, his eyes darken into shadows even as Yamamoto watches.

“How did you know it was me?” he asks in an attempt to stave off whatever unnamed emotion is creeping into Gokudera’s expression and tensing hard against his lower lip. The box is set on the table alongside the bed, Yamamoto drops to sprawl in the chair to match, and Gokudera blinks and refocuses on his face. There’s a tilt of his chin, a flick of silver hair back from sharp features, and then he looks like himself again, right down to the sneer of superiority at his lips.

“You think you’re the only idiot I know?” he scoffs, then undoes himself immediately: “You’re the only one who would try to be quiet opening a door at two in the afternoon.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto smiles. Gokudera looks even more striking than usual, like his absence from the office has only made him shine the brighter now that Yamamoto is back in the same room with him. “I didn’t want to risk waking you.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes and folds his arms over the bandages wrapped around his chest. He hasn’t bothered with his usual uniform, has just shrugged on an overshirt to cover his shoulders and left the rest of his skin to the cover of the bandages. Yamamoto’s pretty sure that says more about his current pain when sitting up than any deliberate attempt at aesthetic appeal, but he still ends up staring at the other’s collarbones to watch the clean-line drag of them under his skin when he moves.

“You’re an idiot,” Gokudera informs him, decisive like this latest piece of evidence is the finishing blow in a long-standing decision. His gaze lands on the box, his chin tipping down to match the drop of his tone into skepticism. “What the fuck is  _that_.”

Yamamoto doesn’t look away from Gokudera’s scowl. “It’s food.” He tries on a smile that Gokudera doesn’t see, huffs the outline of a laugh into the air. “Sushi. I thought maybe you’d be tired of hospital food.”

Gokudera looks up again to catch the trailing edge of Yamamoto’s expression. His brows draw together into irritation, his scowl falling into alignment with the crease in his forehead; if it weren’t for the reclined angle of his back enforced by the half-upright bed behind him, he would look very nearly as he usually does. “I don’t like sushi.”

“Come on,” Yamamoto tries, tipping forward and putting on his best coaxing tone. “You can’t  _like_  the stuff they serve here.”

“I  _don’t_ ,” Gokudera growls. “But I don’t like sushi  _more_.”

“Have you even had it?” Yamamoto presses, his attention so caught by the glare in Gokudera’s eyes that his gaze isn’t even wandering to the pale curve of his throat, isn’t even tracing along the sharp-edge angle of his wrists at his crossed arms.

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps, and Yamamoto knows he’s hit the mark. “I don’t like  _cooked_  fish, there’s no way I’d like it  _raw_.”

Yamamoto laughs. It’s too easy to do when he’s with Gokudera, like the irritation in the other’s throat turns itself into pure delight in his, or maybe it’s the catch of the light off his hair, or the clarity of his features freed of the usual haze of cigarette smoke that accompanies him.

“You do that a lot,” he declares, watching for the flicker of confusion across Gokudera’s forehead, the frustration of not understanding that tightens his mouth. “Decide you don’t like something before you’ve even tried it. Isn’t it worth an attempt?”

“I do  _not_ ,” Gokudera denies. His jaw is setting on anger, the pale of his cheeks starting to dip into color like Yamamoto is accusing him of some serious crime. “I don’t do that, you don’t--you don’t even  _know_  me.”

It ought to be a rejection. In someone else’s throat it might even sound that way. But Gokudera is going red, now, his skin darkening into embarrassment that entirely undermines any hope he might have at sincerity, and when Yamamoto starts to grin it’s in anticipation of the capitulation he can see coming clearly now.

“Fuck you,” Gokudera snaps, final punctuation to his claim, and reaches out to drag the box closer to him. “Fuck  _you_ , goddamn baseball idiot.”

The insults lack any bite to them, especially when Gokudera proceeds to devour three pieces of sushi while glaring at Yamamoto as if this will prove his point. Yamamoto doesn’t press for a verdict -- he knows better than to push his luck -- just leans back in his chair and offers commentary on the interactions of the office while Gokudera has been recovering, laying out easy marks for Gokudera to hiss familiar frustration at instead of at the food he keeps reaching for. He manages to linger for almost an hour, watching the tension in Gokudera’s forehead fade with every bite he takes, until by the time the other snaps “Why the fuck are you still here, don’t you have work to be doing?” Gokudera’s frown is as easy as a smile would be on another mouth.

“Hm,” Yamamoto offers consideringly, kicks his foot out to nudge against the edge of the hospital bed. “I guess so.”

“So get out.” Gokudera glances at the box, a flicker of attention Yamamoto is pretty sure he didn’t intend, and reaches out to shove it away so hard it teeters at the edge of the table and nearly falls. “Take that with you, I can’t reach the trash can while they’ve got me chained to the bed like this.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees easily, getting to his feet to collect the completely empty box. Gokudera’s hand is back on the bed but his arms aren’t crossed; Yamamoto can see the unconscious curl of his hand, the way his rings fit alongside each other against the pale elegance of his fingers. The back of his neck tingles, going hot with remembering the weight of Gokudera clinging to him for support, with recalling the press of metal and shock-cold skin against him while he was too high on adrenaline to appreciate the friction.

Then Gokudera’s fingers tighten, his hand sliding away over the bed to fit under his elbow again, and when Yamamoto looks up Gokudera is staring at him with his mouth unusually soft, like he’s forgotten that he’s supposed to be angry. There’s a heartbeat of silence, uncertain tension rising behind Gokudera’s gaze, and then it’s Yamamoto who takes a breath and speaks.

“Get better soon,” he says, flickering a smile into the green of Gokudera’s stare. “I miss seeing you in the mornings.”

Gokudera goes briefly, violently crimson; Yamamoto can watch the color stain his cheeks, can see the shock drop his lips barely open on a huff of surprise. Then he closes his mouth, twists his expression into a frown, and when he says “Fuck off, idiot” he does such a good job of pretending irritation Yamamoto would believe him if he couldn’t see the softness caught at the corner of his eyes.


	18. Fixing

Yamamoto is looking forward to when Gokudera gets out of the hospital. He’s been back in the office for over a week, working around the cast still holding his arm immobile and trying not to think about how enormous the unoccupied space across the desk feels. The mornings are silent, his habit of coming in early too ingrained to give up just because he’s lost the original motivation for it, and besides it feels right, somehow, like he’s holding the gap of Gokudera’s spot for him by his own presence. The lingering smell of smoke in the air fades with the days; Ryohei doesn’t smoke any more than Tsuna or Hibari does, and if Mukuro indulges in such a habit it’s just as unknown to Yamamoto as all other personal details of the other. The lack leaves Yamamoto aching, drags his attention away at odd intervals to catch unseeing at the empty ashtray on Gokudera’s side of the desk for minutes at a stretch.

He’s not sure when Gokudera is scheduled to be released from his room. Gokudera doesn’t take kindly to reminders of his injury, Yamamoto figured out quickly, and the pleasure of his scowling response to small talk is far better than the faint possibility of information to be obtained by asking and running the risk of true anger. Yamamoto works instead off what he can sweet-talk out of the nurses and the minimal information on average recovery time he can find online and spends three days in a row waiting through the mornings before finally drinking the can of coffee he purchased himself in the afternoon, after a return that day became impossible. But he keeps buying the cans, spends his mornings idly fretting on his computer while the chill of condensation drips onto his desk to leave another ring on the surface, keeps hoping that maybe today will be the day.

And then one morning it is. Yamamoto comes in at his regular time to what is fast becoming a regularly empty office, sets the chill can of coffee down next to his keyboard so he can unbutton his jacket before sitting down. It takes a moment for his computer to boot up, another for him to open up the report he started the day before; his attention is just starting to wander to all the gaps so near to him when he takes a breath and tastes smoke, and when he looks up Gokudera is standing in the doorway watching him.

For a moment they stare at each other. Gokudera has a lit cigarette in his mouth, is back in his usual suit; if he’s favoring his back Yamamoto can’t tell, can’t see anything but casual grace in the curve of his stance.

“Hi,” Yamamoto finally says, listening to his voice go as breathless as if he hadn’t seen Gokudera just yesterday, hadn’t made his now-usual offering of sushi in place of the hospital-provided dinners. His mouth curves into a smile of its own accord, the happiness thudding into his pulse demanding an outlet at his lips. “Welcome back.”

Gokudera huffs and steps into the room. His stride is normal too, his shoulders shifting without any trace of pain as he makes his way to Yamamoto’s side of the desk instead of his own. When he reaches for the coffee can Yamamoto watches his face instead of the stretch of his fingers, sees the way Gokudera’s eyes are lingering at his features rather than watching what he’s reaching for.

“Still wasting your money?” Gokudera asks. There’s a crack of sound, the tab of the can breaking the metal open, and then he’s pulling the can away from Yamamoto’s desk and towards his lips as he reaches up to draw his cigarette free. He only looks away from Yamamoto’s gaze when he tips his head back to take a swallow; Yamamoto only then thinks to blink, only then realizes that there is a question hanging in the air awaiting his answer.

“Ha, yeah.” Gokudera glances at him again before moving back around the edge of the desk to his own side of the table. The smoke of his cigarette hangs in the air, heavier than it seemed in comparison with its absence. “I’m glad you’re back.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes, drops down to his seat with as much boneless elegance as if he has been on vacation for the last two weeks rather than in the hospital. “I’m happy for you,” he drawls, and takes another swallow of the coffee before resuming his cigarette.

“Aren’t you glad?” Yamamoto pushes. He knows he’s being leading, knows he’s asking for more than he ought, but his chest is swelling tight with affectionate joy, everything in the room is glowing brighter with the addition of Gokudera’s scowl; it seems impossible that anyone in the world could be less than effervescently happy at this moment.

Gokudera gives him a look that implies that he, at least, can imagine such a reality. “I’m not  _really_  back,” he says, reaching out to turn on his computer. “I’m not cleared for field work for another month. All I can do is process paperwork.”

“Ah.” Yamamoto blinks, lets his smile drag wider for a moment of conspiratorial relief. “Me either.”

Gokudera’s eyes flicker to Yamamoto’s arm, to the outline of the cast under his unbuttoned sleeve, but what he says is, “It’s different for you,” sharp and certain as a wall coming down as he looks at his screen and clicks something with such force Yamamoto can hear the sound across the desk.

The sign is clear enough. Yamamoto isn’t enough of an idiot to miss that the conversation is over, isn’t blind enough to ignore the tension collecting at the corners of Gokudera’s eyes, the strain turning his habitual scowl into something fierce with teeth. But the smoke in the air is making him as dizzy as the shift of Gokudera’s eyelashes when he blinks, his self-control deteriorating with every drag Gokudera takes off his cigarette, and so instead of staying quiet he says, “We’re not that different,” knowing even as the words form into inoffensive cheer that Gokudera is going to explode at them.

He can see it in Gokudera’s eyes, first, the green dipping into shadow, his brows drawing low and furious over the color. Then in his mouth, his scowl so deep Yamamoto can see the white edge of his teeth, and the tilt of his shoulders rocking forward like he’s thinking about lunging over the desk, like he’s contemplating seizing Yamamoto’s shirt and shaking him by the hold.

“We are  _entirely_  different,  _Inspector_ ,” Gokudera spits, throwing the title like an insult that Yamamoto can feel ache against his chest as a dismissive ‘idiot’ never does. “You have a  _life_ , you have a  _future_.” Gokudera’s fingers tighten on his coffee can -- Yamamoto can hear the metal creak as it creases under the pressure, the curves of the sides flattening into straight lines under Gokudera’s touch. “The only reason I  _exist_  is to be expendable, to be a  _shield_  between Inspectors like you and criminals like me.”

Yamamoto can’t muster a smile, this time, but he doesn’t look away from Gokudera’s gaze. He can feel something dark in his veins, an ache like something is being pulled out of him, like his blood is turning to steam. “We’re  _not_  different,” he insists, feeling his mouth taking on the unfamiliar shape of a frown, feeling stubborn resistance creasing his forehead. “If my Hue kept deteriorating--”

“It’s  _not the same_ ,” Gokudera growls. “You have a  _chance_.” He’s all but shouting, now, the rough of his voice echoing off the office walls; Yamamoto’s heart is pounding adrenaline into him, his whole body tensing in expectation of some conflict more than words shouted across a too-small table. He can see the shadows in Gokudera’s eyes, the shift of his eyelashes when he blinks.

“I was  _eight_.” Gokudera’s scowl doesn’t flicker, his shoulders don’t relax, but his voice jumps high and anguished, his eyes turning themselves into agony for a moment that steals all Yamamoto’s fight right out of his veins. “I was supposed to follow in my mother’s footsteps, I was supposed to make my father  _proud_.” The word twists around, tears at Gokudera instead of Yamamoto, and Yamamoto can feel his breathing stick at the ache in his chest, his expression falling into a soft sympathy he’s very sure Gokudera doesn’t want. “I was scanned before I was supposed to start school. Even  _you_  can see how that turned out.” Gokudera flings himself back in his chair, sweeps a hand sharply through the air like his childhood expectations are as fleeting as the smoke of his cigarette. “I was too broken to even  _try_  to fix.”

There’s a moment of quiet between them. Yamamoto’s adrenaline is still thrumming in his heartbeat and trembling in his hands, but any desire for a fight is gone, swept away by the strained sound of Gokudera’s voice and the pained shine of his eyes. Gokudera’s looking at the coffee instead of at Yamamoto, blinking hard and twisting the metal under his hold; it’s a few moments before he takes a deliberate breath and looks back up with all the wall of his scowl back in place.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he hisses. “I don’t want your  _pity_.”

Yamamoto looks down, offering immediate obedience to Gokudera’s demand since he can’t figure out how to get his own expression back under control. There’s another pause, the quiet going clean like the air after a sudden storm -- then Yamamoto looks up and catches Gokudera’s gaze still hovering on him, though the forced frustration of his frown is absent.

“What were you going to be?” he asks, quick, before the impulse can give way to reason.

Gokudera’s jaw sets, his neck goes tense; for a moment Yamamoto is sure he’ll refuse to answer, isn’t completely sure he won’t get up and leave the room entirely. But then he looks away, down at the empty ashtray on the desk, and when he says “A pianist” it’s quick, dropped into the distance between the cigarette at his mouth and the ashtray waiting for it.

Yamamoto’s gaze slides down, catches on the elegant shift of Gokudera’s fingers, and he can see it now, can see the efficient grace of a musician in the angle of his knuckles and the narrow length of his fingers. For a moment the scars of old injuries are invisible, the weight of the other’s habitual rings are the affectation of a rising young star, the jacket sliding over his wrists better suited for a concert hall than for combat, and Yamamoto can’t breathe for the pressure of desire in his chest.

“It doesn’t matter,” Gokudera says, sharply enough that it cuts through Yamamoto’s distraction. When he looks up Gokudera’s not looking at him; he’s staring at his computer screen instead, has his head tipped down so it’s hard to make out the faint flush of self-consciousness over his cheeks. “I’m not now.”

Yamamoto takes a breath, tastes the smoke in the air, lets the aftermath of confrontation stretch his thoughts wide-open and honest. When he smiles he doesn’t have to reach for it, when he speaks he doesn’t have to think. “I’m not what I thought I’d be either.”

Gokudera’s eyes cut to him, narrowing with suspicion; Yamamoto holds his smile, holds his gaze, until Gokudera is the one to look away again, huffing irritable judgment across the desk.

“You’re still a baseball idiot,” he declares to his computer screen.

Yamamoto is the one to laugh, but Gokudera’s mouth twitches in what is very nearly a smile, and just like that the gap is filled like it never existed at all.


	19. Attention

The city streets are strange when they’re empty. Yamamoto has seen this happen a handful of times since he started working at the Bureau; the police barriers are effective and non-threatening, the easiest tool to make use of in a volatile situation, and though he usually sees them used to clear out a building they work just as well to keep a few city blocks free of any bystanders who might be affected by the situation. It’s still odd how quiet the space is around them, with the buildings locked down on command from the central offices and the streets absent anything but the shuffle of their footsteps against the pavement.

Tsuna draws to a halt when they’re a block in from the barriers, when the hum of cheerful electronic voices has faded to a whirr in the background instead of anything distinguishable. He’s shaking, Yamamoto thinks, his shoulders hunched in like he’s bearing a weight he doesn’t want to, but when he speaks his voice is clear, certain and carrying all the force of a command without space for argument.

“We should split into teams,” he says, reaching for the holding strap over his Dominator to loosen the weapon at his hip. “Ryohei, go with Mukuro and Chrome and head east. Gokudera and Yamamoto, take the west side. I’ll--”

Hibari is still walking, straight down the main street with his Dominator in his hand as if it’s part of his body, everything about his stance calm and easy and wholly, absolutely threatening. Tsuna huffs a whimper of frustration, some of his assumed authority giving way to the sound, and heads after the Enforcer, his sentence unfinished but clear nonetheless.

“Exciting to the extreme!” Ryohei shouts, his voice loud enough that there’s a second echo off the buildings, the sound bouncing between the walls with a stubborn refusal to fade. “Let’s go!” And he’s gone too, taking off down a sidestreet with no consideration for the general rule to let Enforcers lead. Mukuro ducks in to Chrome, says something too softly for Yamamoto to catch but enough to flush Chrome’s cheeks pink in reaction, then fits his fingers to the back of her neck to urge her down the street in Ryohei’s wake.

“Come on,” Gokudera says from behind Yamamoto, drawing all the other’s attention back to him in the space of a heartbeat. He’s tossing his dying cigarette to the pavement, crushing the ember dark underneath his shoe; when he tips his head back his mouth is soft and oddly gentle without the need to support its usual burden of smoke and flame. “Unless you want to stand here waiting for the guy to come to us?”

Yamamoto blinks at him, adrift for a moment without the protest he was expecting to hear. “Oh,” he says, and even then there’s no rejection in Gokudera’s expression, just a silver eyebrow starting to raise at Yamamoto’s delay. “Right, yeah, let’s go.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes, turns towards the nearest sidestreet. “Are you totally awake yet?”

“Ha,” Yamamoto offers, jogging a few feet before falling into step at Gokudera’s heels. “I’m fine.”

“You had better be,” Gokudera says, cutting his eyes sideways to offer skepticism in Yamamoto’s direction. “If you’re not going to be able to watch my back you’re no good to me.”

Yamamoto’s attention skids sideways, catches itself entirely on Gokudera’s expression for a moment. The other isn’t looking at him anymore; he’s unfastening his Dominator, his head tilted down and away so Yamamoto can’t see his expression. That’s okay; Yamamoto can still feel the words fitting against the inside of his chest, pressing themselves into his blood like they were meant to be there, and when he smiles it’s wide and bright and helpless.

“I’m fine, Gokudera,” he says, the words so bright Gokudera looks back up to narrow his eyes at him suspiciously. “You can count on me.”

There’s a moment of hesitation: Gokudera glaring, Yamamoto smiling, both their footsteps slowing nearly to a halt. Then Gokudera’s mouth twitches and tugs into a lopsided smile for just a moment before he looks away, clearing his throat while Yamamoto tries to remember how to breathe.

“Good,” is all Gokudera says, resuming his quick pace towards the alley. “Now try to pay attention, idiot.”

There’s not much to pay attention to, as it turns out. The first alley is empty, clear of the debris or obstructions that could offer hiding spaces to the pair they’re looking for: a man and his step-daughter, in this case. There are complications to the situation, as Yamamoto understands it; there’s some suggestion they might be biologically related, that this may be a case of a father attempting to ‘rescue’ his daughter from her adopted family. But regardless of how complicated the reasons may be, the fact remains that the man showed up on a scanner early this morning, his Coefficient having finally slid over 100, and that makes bringing him in a necessity for the Bureau.

“Do you think he knows we’re looking for him?” Yamamoto asks as they pause at the turnoff for another sidestreet, this one equally silent but boasting a corner near the back that warrants investigation. Yamamoto glances back over the street -- it’s as empty as if they’re alone, the rest of their department scattered out of sight and hearing -- before ducking into the shadows to trail Gokudera into the space.

“Kinda hard to miss,” Gokudera deadpans as he steps around the corner to squint into the shadows. “Maybe if he’s as dumb as  _you_  are.”

“Aww,” Yamamoto laughs, stepping to the side of the alley to let Gokudera pass him on the way back to the main street. “It must be scary, though,” he says as they come back out into the sunlight and continue on down to the next handful of shadowy alleys. “Knowing you’re going to get caught.”

“He should just turn himself in,” Gokudera growls, kicking idly at a chunk of pavement knocked loose of the smooth of the road. “It’d save everyone a lot of trouble.”

“Hm,” Yamamoto hums at the back of Gokudera’s head, glancing idly down one of the already-checked streets as they proceed. “I dunno, I don’t think I would.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot,” Gokudera says without looking back or putting any bite on the words at all. “There’s no point in delaying the inevitable, he should hurry up and get it over with.”

“Maybe he’s still hoping he can slip past us,” Yamamoto says, stepping forward to trail Gokudera down another alley too dark to scan thoroughly from the main street. “Maybe he just wants to be with his daughter.”

“Oh my god,” Gokudera groans, pivoting on his heel to stare into Yamamoto’s face. “Are you really going all bleeding-heart about this guy now? He  _kidnapped_  the girl, her Hue’s been worse every time they get picked up on a scan. You can’t let sympathy get in the way of your job.”

“I’m not,” Yamamoto says, reaching to touch his Dominator like it’s a grounding point to reality against the inhuman bright of Gokudera’s stare. “I’m just thinking.”

Gokudera’s mouth twitches again, the corner of it curving up into a smirk that lingers, this time, long enough for Yamamoto to watch the softness creep into his eyes and ease the hard brightness of the color into something darker and a little more forgiving.

“Well,” Gokudera starts, “Obviously we’ve found the problem.” He looks like he’s going to say something more, his smile creeping wider with every teasing word, but then he goes quiet, his gaze dropping from Yamamoto’s face out over his shoulder and the amusement at his lips fading to distraction. Yamamoto’s own smile flickers, faltering as Gokudera’s eyes narrow in concentration; then suddenly the smile is gone, Gokudera’s reaching out to shove at his shoulder, and just as the force of the other’s push tips Yamamoto forward there’s an impact against his shoulder and every muscle in his body spasms into a cramp.

Yamamoto doesn’t know what sound he makes. It’s a gasp, he thinks, an involuntary gust of air as his lungs flex and expel all the oxygen in his chest; it’s not even entirely pain that he’s feeling, the sensation is too intense to parse as agony or surprise or fear. He’s just falling, dropping to the ground with enough force to hurt if he could feel anything but the all-over tension jolting through him, and then the pressure at his shoulder leaves and he’s choking for air as his limbs shiver themselves into stillness again.

Things are happening, he’s aware distantly. There’s the sound of voices, the sound of  _Gokudera’s_  voice, a shout echoing off the walls and some vicious spill of sound that must be a curse or a threat, although Yamamoto can’t make out the details of the meaning. Footsteps, a clatter of metal-on-metal, a growl of frustration and the heavy impact of something hitting the ground. Yamamoto groans, twists against the ground, and forces his eyes into focus on the movement a few feet away. Gokudera’s got a hand against the shoulder of a tall blond, the features of the man’s face contorted with intensity but still recognizably the target they’ve been chasing. There’s a Dominator on the ground -- Gokudera’s, Yamamoto realizes as he reaches habitually for the weight still at his hip. The target has the advantage of height and breadth on Gokudera, and for a moment Yamamoto thinks Gokudera might be able to break free. There’s a crackle of electricity from a weapon in the man’s hand, sparks lighting the dark air blue with danger, and then Gokudera screams.

Yamamoto doesn’t know how he moves. His whole body is aching, his muscles protesting the forced cramping of the electricity the target sent through him; his vision is hazy, his balance unsteady, his fingers far too clumsy to manage the strap holding his Dominator down. But he hears the raw agony in Gokudera’s throat, the sound tearing him down to more vulnerability than Yamamoto has ever known him to have, and he  _is_  moving, throwing himself forward with enough force that his shoulder slams against the target’s shin, knocking him down and off-balance and pulling the weapon away from where it was pressed against Gokudera’s hip. Gokudera falls, trembling as helplessly as Yamamoto was, and Yamamoto’s vision is going again, the edges going dark even as the man kicks his fragile hold free and staggers to his feet again. He’s still holding the weapon, the dark shape of it still crackling with electricity, and Yamamoto wonders hazily if it’s possible to kill someone with a stun gun, wonders if he can at least reach Gokudera before he gets shocked again.

It’s confusing to see the burst of blue light. For a moment Yamamoto thinks it must be Gokudera, that he managed to reach his dropped Dominator through some impossible force of will. But when he looks over Gokudera is still shuddering against the pavement, gasping for air like he can’t get his lungs to work right, and his Dominator is still well out of reach and untouched. It’s not until the target collapses to the street and clears Yamamoto’s line of sight to the main route that he can make out the silhouette of an Enforcer at the entrance to the alley, a Dominator still trained on the target as if one Paralyzer might not be enough to take him down.

Yamamoto is aware, vaguely, that he should feel grateful to Hibari’s timely arrival. But all he can find in him is relief for the way Gokudera turns his head and gasps for air, gratitude for the sound of the other’s breathing loud and reassuring against the dizzy blur that encroaches on, and then eclipses, Yamamoto’s attention.


	20. Gratitude

Gokudera’s waiting when Yamamoto comes into the office the next morning.

It’s not unusual for Yamamoto to show up second. Most days when he comes in there’s a cloud of smoke already hanging in the air as proof of Gokudera’s presence in the room for an hour at least, along with the hunch of the other’s shoulders as a statement that his own arrival is neither wanted nor welcome. But it  _is_  unusual for Gokudera to be looking at him when he walks in the door, to be in fact turned away from his computer to face Yamamoto as he enters, and it’s unheard of for his mouth to be relaxed out of its usual frown as it is now.

“Catch,” Gokudera says, and then waits while Yamamoto gets his hand up in front of him before tossing a can towards him. It’s an easy underhand throw, curving through the air straight to Yamamoto’s fingers, and it’s an easy catch, too, the cool of the can landing solidly against Yamamoto’s palm as his fingers close around it. It’s coffee, this time, though not the plain black variety Yamamoto picked up on his way in; the label is cream-colored instead, promising the sweetness of milk to cut the bitter of the liquid inside. He only has a chance to consider it for a moment; then Gokudera is rocking forward, gesturing peremptorily towards the dark can at Yamamoto’s side.

“Hand it over,” he orders, as certain as if the coffee is his already and not ostensibly a gift. Yamamoto smiles, steps forward as if the curl of Gokudera’s fingers is the tug of a leash, and offers the can. Gokudera leans back against his chair as Yamamoto comes closer, the early-morning tension easing out of his shoulders as he goes; when he takes the can his thumb brushes the very tips of Yamamoto’s fingers for a moment before he draws it away to brace at the table and open the lid. Yamamoto lingers at Gokudera’s side of the desk, turning his own coffee over to peer at the label; he’s pretty sure it’s from the same vending machine he frequents daily, though the drink itself is one he’s never purchased.

“It’s half milk,” Gokudera says suddenly, startling Yamamoto’s attention back to him. Gokudera’s not looking at him; he’s watching his fingers twist against the coffee can on his desk, his hair covering most of his features so all Yamamoto can see is the set of his jaw and the motion of his throat when he swallows back tension. “You like milk, right?”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says to the curve of Gokudera’s throat, staring at the pale of his skin just over the top edge of his collar. “I do.” He sounds a little weird, he can feel his voice hitting an odd resonance in his throat; he reaches for normalcy, manages a laugh. “Milk’s good for you.”

Gokudera glances at his face, just for a moment; then he coughs a laugh, ducks his head as his mouth tightens on a grin. “Must be why you’re so freakishly tall.”

“Ha, maybe.” Yamamoto tips sideways, turns to lean against the edge of Gokudera’s desk. “I’m not that tall, anyway.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera chides, reaching out to shove at Yamamoto’s knee with the hand holding his coffee. Yamamoto can feel the texture of his rings through the fabric. “Stop showing off your stupidly long legs.”

“I’m not showing them off,” Yamamoto says, watching the tug of a smile at the corner of Gokudera’s mouth and the color in his eyes when he glances up through his hair at Yamamoto’s face. “I’m just standing.”

“Whatever,” Gokudera sighs, and tips his head back to press the edge of his coffee can to his lips. Yamamoto looks away, down at the slide of cold water under his thumb against his own can, and takes a breath in the momentary quiet.

“I’m sorry,” he says as Gokudera is reaching to set his coffee back down.

There’s a hiss of breath, a startled inhale from the other; when Yamamoto looks back Gokudera is staring at him, his eyes wide and blank of any understanding. “What?”

“I’m sorry,” Yamamoto says again, this time to the green of Gokudera’s eyes. “For yesterday.”

Gokudera stares at him for another moment. “ _What_?”

“I wasn’t paying attention,” Yamamoto explains. “When we were in the alley. I got caught unawares and didn’t have your back.”

“You tried to tackle him,” Gokudera says, still looking completely uncomprehending. “After being  _shocked_. I should be  _thanking_  you.”

“He was going to hurt you again,” Yamamoto says, like that’s the complete explanation that it is in truth. “I had to stop him.”

Gokudera stares at him. His eyebrows are drawn together, pinning down a crease against his forehead; he’s not smiling anymore, but it’s not quite a frown at his mouth either. Yamamoto can see his lips tremble before they tighten to still the motion, can see the careful inhale Gokudera takes before he asks, “Why were you distracted?”

There’s a moment of silence. Yamamoto doesn’t breathe, doesn’t blink; he’s seeing Gokudera-now, Gokudera-then, the overfast thrum of his heart in his chest telling him why, spelling out the answer he knew already. It’s impossible to focus on anything else when Gokudera is near, when the very curl of his hair at his collar is enough to skid Yamamoto’s breathing sideways. With the focused stare he’s offering now, with the flash of the smile he gave yesterday, Yamamoto thinks the entire world could collapse around him and he might not ever notice.

He forces himself into a breath, reaches for a smile. He’s not sure how it comes out; it tugs his mouth into a curve, at least, but he’s fairly sure the shape of his mouth doesn’t match the softness in his eyes.

“I don’t think you want me to tell you,” he admits.

Gokudera blinks. Yamamoto doesn’t know what he expects; a growl of irritation, perhaps, a demand that he answer anyway, that he find the words for the way his blood goes hot in his veins and his thoughts drift hazy whenever he thinks of pale hair and angry eyes. But Gokudera doesn’t say anything; he just stares, heartbeats stretching long with expectation, and then he starts to flush, his cheeks collecting color Yamamoto can see clear in the moment before Gokudera ducks his head to hide again.

“Get off my desk,” he says, audibly fighting for gruff frustration that just sounds shaky in his throat. “Don’t you have better things to be doing than pestering me?”

Yamamoto smiles. “Yeah, I guess.” He doesn’t, at least nothing that’s better from his perspective, but he straightens anyway, moves around the end of the desk to retreat to the somewhat-safety of his own side of the table. He turns his computer on, reaches for his keyboard -- and Gokudera’s foot taps his shin, the impact so gentle even the loosest definition of ‘kick’ would be too strong.

“Thanks,” Gokudera says without looking away from his computer screen.

Yamamoto isn’t completely sure what Gokudera is thanking him for: the coffee, the day before, the non-response. But there’s still the hint of a blush against Gokudera’s features, his mouth not yet reformed into his usual scowl, and Yamamoto doesn’t ask for clarification.

When he stretches out a leg to brush Gokudera’s ankle, Gokudera doesn’t pull away.


	21. Suggestion

“Hey,” Gokudera says from the side of the training room. “You back in reality now?”

Yamamoto rolls his shoulders, working out the tension of practice as he lets his deliberate stance go slack and neutral again; when he looks back over his shoulder towards the doorway it’s with a smile completely absent surprise. Gokudera’s perched on one of the tables near the door, tipped back so his shoulders are pressed to the wall; he has one knee drawn up to brace his outstretched arm, his fingers tight against the cap of a sports drink.

“You were really into it,” Gokudera observes as Yamamoto turns to cross the distance to him, keeping the bamboo sword in his hand high enough to clear the floor; his arms are shaking very slightly, the pleasant hum of exertion is buzzing all through his veins.

“Mm,” Yamamoto offers, drawing in close enough to touch Gokudera’s bare wrist if he reached, close enough that he could draw his fingers through silver hair. He doesn’t. He turns instead, leans backwards until the table is taking his weight in addition to Gokudera’s. “Were you waiting for the room?”

Gokudera shrugs, offering the non-answer of avoidance, and brings the drink in his hand in to twist the cap free with a crack of plastic. “I thought you might hit yourself if I startled you.”

“I heard you come in,” Yamamoto says, watching Gokudera watch his hands on the bottle. “You wouldn’t have startled me.”

Gokudera glances at him, his gaze sliding from Yamamoto’s face down over his shoulders, the line of his arm, stopping at the grip of his fingers on the bamboo sword. He’s still playing with the bottle cap, turning the plastic over and over in his fingers so it clicks at the weight of his rings.

“Don’t you have any friends?” he asks suddenly, still looking at Yamamoto’s hand instead of his face. “Why are you always here instead of at home or out with other people?”

“I have friends,” Yamamoto says, his attention wandering between the twist of Gokudera’s fingers and the curve of his mouth. “We’re friends.”

He is braced for a rejection, for the sting of a glare or the hiss of a growl to push back his claim. He can even see the beginning of it crease Gokudera’s forehead and tighten the corner of his mouth, the threat of unhappiness rising into tension in his features. But then Gokudera looks up at him, catches Yamamoto staring at him, and when he ducks his head and looks out at the training room Yamamoto knows he’s not going to deny the claim.

There’s a lapse of silence again. Yamamoto’s thoughts are hazy, drifting warm and pleasant on the afterglow of exercise; the sound of Gokudera breathing next to him is just an added bonus, enough to keep his mouth curved on the shape of a smile even when he’s gazing unseeing at the empty room.

“Do you ever train with someone else?” Gokudera asks finally. When Yamamoto looks over at him he’s leaned back against the wall, his weight slouched into the support and his gaze lingering at Yamamoto’s face. He’s still playing with the bottle cap. “Sparring or practices matches or something?”

Yamamoto shakes his head. “I don’t have anyone to train with,” he admits. “I meet Squalo sometimes to practice with the Dominators, but Ryohei likes to work out in the mornings.”

Gokudera clears his throat, looks away from Yamamoto’s eyes. There’s a tinge of pink climbing across his cheeks. “I don’t have anything better to do in the evenings,” he says to the rest of the room, his skin coloring darker as his voice dips into roughness. “If you want…” He pauses, clears his throat so hard it sounds like a cough. “If you ever need a training partner or something.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, feeling all his skin prickle as if with electricity. “Yeah. Yes.”

“I don’t know kendo,” Gokudera says, ducking his head farther as his voice goes rougher.

“That’s fine,” Yamamoto says, maybe a little too fast, but Gokudera’s shoulders are hunching in defensively, he looks like he might be thinking about bolting, and Yamamoto will say anything to keep him here. “Whatever you want to do is fine, I’d like to see you.”

He didn’t intend that level of honesty. It’s hard to keep a rein on his tongue when he’s feeling as hazy as if this entire conversation might be a daydream instead of reality, the harder when Gokudera is going red at such close proximity Yamamoto can almost feel the heat radiating off his skin. But Gokudera doesn’t recoil at that either, just cuts his eyes over at Yamamoto and coughs a laugh that sounds sincere even around the strain of anxiety under the sound.

“You see me all day,” he says, finally lifting the bottle in his hand to his lips to swallow a mouthful of liquid. “I’m not  _that_  good company.” Then, fast, before Yamamoto can reach for the words to tell him how wrong he is: “I’m going to get something to eat” as he sets the bottle down and pushes off the edge of the table. His movements are graceful, fluid from the angle of his knees to the dip of his shoulders; when he glances back over his shoulder Yamamoto’s fingers tighten on the desire to brush a lock of silver hair back from the curve of his neck. “You gonna go home before you eat?”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says without thinking. “I have some leftovers--” and then he catches up to himself, backtracks so fast his tongue stutters on the syllables. “But I’m hungrier than I thought I’d be. Dinner first sounds like a good idea.”

Gokudera stares at him for a minute; then he shrugs, like the movement of his shoulders will somehow undermine the softness at the corners of his eyes and the tension of satisfaction catching the edge of his mouth.

“Whatever,” he says, turning away towards the door. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“Wait,” Yamamoto calls after him, reaching for the bottle abandoned on the table. “You left your drink.”

Gokudera glances back, one hand on the door, the other still twisting over the cap for the bottle in Yamamoto’s hand. When he tosses his hair back from his face Yamamoto can see the catch of a smile at the corner of his lips.

“It’s fine,” he says, pulling the door open. “You can have it if you want.”

Yamamoto watches Gokudera until the door has swung shut behind him. It’s only when the other is out of sight that he brings the bottle to his lips to taste the smokey print of Gokudera’s mouth against the plastic.


	22. Recognition

“Isn’t this kind of weird for you?” Yamamoto asks as he follows Gokudera up a rickety staircase, both of them sticking close to the banister in case the rotting wood decides to cave through on the main portion of the step. “Going after people you know?”

“I don’t  _know_  them,” Gokudera retorts. A step creaks under his testing weight; he pauses, makes a face, lengthens his stride to miss it entirely in what is nearly a leap to the next step up. “Mukuro’s the only one they ever talked to. Just because we’re all latent criminals doesn’t make us best friends.”

“You didn’t get to know them?” Yamamoto asks, curiosity pushing his query forward in spite of the growl of irritation under Gokudera’s tone. “If they were friends with Mukuro, you must know a little about them.”

“You’re not listening,” Gokudera announces. He takes the last steps at a go, two quick strides to the top before he turns to gaze down at Yamamoto from the sudden advantage of height. “They’re not Mukuro’s  _friends_. They’re like--” He waves a hand, makes a face. “ _Followers_ , or disciples, kind of. They’re weird about Mukuro. Like Chrome is.”

“Chrome’s not that weird,” Yamamoto says, taking a long step over a pair of uncertain stairs. “She just cares about him.”

There’s a pause. When Yamamoto looks up Gokudera is gazing at him, one eyebrow raised in silent question of his mental faculties.

“Chrome is  _extremely_  weird,” Gokudera declares, so flatly as to leave no room for any alternative perspective. Yamamoto takes the last step and regains his usual height, blinking down at Gokudera from far closer than he was ready for. Gokudera’s mouth twitches, amusement where there would have once been anger, and when he reaches out to flick the loose end of Yamamoto’s tie it lacks any of the force it would need to turn aggressive. “And you’re weird if you don’t think so.”

“Ha,” Yamamoto says, his attention to anything other than Gokudera’s face wavering and his thoughts too fizzing-warm to care. Gokudera’s fingers brush at the open front of his jacket to weight the fabric for a moment, and when he glances up at Yamamoto’s face Yamamoto can’t help but think about the gap between them, the barely-there barrier of air particles easily crossed with hardly any effort at all.

Gokudera clears his throat, turns away before Yamamoto can decide to make the effort, before he can talk himself out of his better sense. “Come on,” he says, leading the way down the hall. “Don’t get distracted.”

Yamamoto smiles at the back of Gokudera’s jacket, moving to follow as he tries to obey. There’s plenty to hold his attention, once they make it past the staircase and into the shadowy interior of the building. Everything is creaking, the walls themselves seeming to tremble with every step until Yamamoto wonders if the entire second floor might not just cave under the shared weight of their passing. There’s evidence of habitation but nothing recent -- chip bags shredding into unrecognizability, plastic bottles with their labels faded to illegibility. Whatever there may have been as far as edible detritus goes is long since eaten by mice or mold.

“Are you sure they’re here?” Yamamoto asks, listening the strange empty way his voice catches off the walls. “It looks completely deserted.”

“That’s what the Chief said,” Gokudera says with the particular variety of teeth-gritting intensity he always takes when Tsuna comes up, as if every word out of the other’s mouth is law instead of a best-guess from a well-informed but still fallible human. “They’re here.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto says, offering easy capitulation to Gokudera’s brittle certainty. It’s not like it will make a difference in what they do anyway, and it’s hardly as if he minds spending an afternoon with Gokudera, regardless of the setting they are in. The dust hanging in the air fractures the light from the broken windows into a glow, makes Gokudera look like he’s wrapped in a haze of radiance, and Yamamoto’s never thought of dust as pretty before but Gokudera’s presence makes everything around him more beautiful just by proximity. He’s staring again without meaning to, without thinking about it, when a voice comes unfamiliar and startlingly loud from a hallway in front of them.

“Shit.” It’s sharp, loaded with irritation and judgment in equal parts; the speaker sounds younger than Yamamoto expected, more like a teenager than the grown man he anticipated. “I  _told_  you they’d find us, Kaki-pi.”

A sigh, heavy with the resignation the first speaker lacked. “I’m the one who said that, Ken.” Movement from ahead of them, a shift in the shadows of the hall; there’s a suggestion of white, the ambient glow of the sunlight illuminating a tattered hat over dark hair, catching a glare off glasses. “This is such a pain.”

“Shut up,” the first voice -- Ken Joshima, Yamamoto guesses -- snaps. “You don’t wanna go back, do you?”

“Of course not.” That must be Chikusa Kakimoto, then, stepping forward into the light. He has the same slouch Yamamoto remembers from the profile image, like his body isn’t quite strong enough to bear its own weight. “We’ll just deal with them.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ken says, and it’s at this point that Gokudera lifts his Dominator and Yamamoto remembers what they’re supposed to be doing.

“Surrender,” Gokudera says, his voice grating on determination. Yamamoto takes a step forward, falls in shoulder-to-shoulder with Gokudera; he keeps his Dominator at his side, the weight steady in his hands and ready to lift at the first suggestion of movement from either of the two in front of them. His heart is pounding faster, pumping adrenaline into his veins until he’s thrumming with anticipation, his vision going crystal-clear and sharper than it ever is usually. There’s just the four of them in the space: the two latent criminals in front of him, Gokudera just behind his shoulder, and himself inching between the two groups like a wall.

“Surrender,” Gokudera says again, his voice going taut on stress. Yamamoto blinks, focusing on the other two’s expressions, but he can’t get anything from them; Ken is grinning, the expression too manic to make any sense of, and Chikusa looks blank, as if he’s too detached to bother caring about the team sent out to bring him back to the holding facility.

“Can I, Kaki-pi?” Ken asks. He’s lowering himself to the ground, dropping his weight near to the floor; there’s tension in his shoulders, effort building in his legs, but Yamamoto can’t make sense of it, can’t see a reason for the low stance when he’ll only be moving more slowly than he would while standing. “Lemme take ‘em.”

Chikusa sighs, reaches up to adjust his glasses so the light fades off them for a moment. “Fine.”

“Fuck you,” Gokudera says, and that’s when he pulls the trigger of the Dominator.

It should be close enough. They’re near enough to see the expression on the others’ faces; it’s nearly impossible to dodge a Dominator shot even across a much greater range. But Ken moves before Gokudera has even spoken, surging forward from his low crouch much faster than Yamamoto thought he could, and in the first instinctive motion Yamamoto is stepping forward and sideways to angle himself between the target’s bared-teeth threat and Gokudera.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera spits, and “ _Move_ ” and there’s a hand at Yamamoto’s shoulder, shoving him off-balance but not far enough to be clear of Ken’s forward surge. The impact hits Yamamoto solidly in the shoulder, the weight knocking both he and Ken back to the floor. The Dominator is pinned between them, Yamamoto’s wrist caught at an angle that doesn’t let him turn it up to face the other, and when Ken swings forward with a grin so wide it’s nothing but threat Yamamoto brings his left arm up without thinking to cover his face. There’s an impact, what he thinks at first is the crash of Ken headbutting his arm or smashing his nose against the resistance; then the pain hits, a sharp ache spreading out through his entire forearm, and Yamamoto realizes there must have been a knife he didn’t see. There are shouts, Gokudera’s voice yelling commands or concern or curses, Yamamoto can’t pull them apart; he’s too busy swinging a clumsy punch with his injured arm, aiming for the scar running across Ken’s nose and cheekbones. Ken dodges back with that same weird quickness, his eyes dilated dark and vicious, and then there’s the sound of cloth tearing, there’s a line of pain dragging over Yamamoto’s chest, and all Yamamoto’s fight melts into a gasping groan of hurt.

“ _Shit_ ,” he hears, perfectly clearly, Gokudera’s voice skidding into a high range that makes Yamamoto’s heart go tight and aching in his chest. His skin is hot, wet like there’s been water spilled over him, but it hurts, everything hurts and he can’t think how to lift his hand, even though Ken’s weight is off him and he thinks he should be able to angle his Dominator back up to be useful. There’s a flash of blue light, a bitten-off yelp of sound, and Yamamoto blinks at the ceiling, watches the haze of the dust go heavier before clearing again and letting his vision return for a moment. He can hear Gokudera, still, cursing incoherently along the whole wide range of sound that screams of panic, and he should sit up and he should lift his Dominator but he can’t get his mind to work fast enough, can’t even figure out how to turn his head to see what’s happening. There’s a grunt, an unfamiliar voice reacting to an impact; then a hiss, sharp and pained and too-familiar, and Yamamoto is moving to try to sit before he can think, grating “ _Gokudera_ ” past the blinding wall of hurt that hits him.

He doesn’t see the second flash of blue; his vision is too hazy, his attention reaching too desperately for reassurance that Gokudera is okay to even make sense of what he’s seeing at first. Two people standing, stumbling back from each other, and one falls but it’s not Gokudera, Gokudera’s turning towards him, his eyes wide and frown completely forgotten under the soft shape of panic at his mouth.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Yamamoto sees at his lips, and then Gokudera’s there, his Dominator skidding on the floor as he drops it to reach for Yamamoto’s shoulders instead. His arm is warm but when he pulls the movement is staggeringly painful, drags a whimper from Yamamoto’s throat instead of the hum of appreciation he wants to offer. “Fuck,  _fuck_ , what the hell did he  _do_?” There are fingers at Yamamoto’s chest, the pressure aching hurt into his veins, and it’s at this point that he realizes he’s been cut, that the liquid spilling against his skin must be blood.

“Oh,” he says, his voice far fainter than he expected it to be. “I must look terrible.”

“Shut the  _fuck_  up,” Gokudera spits. His jaw is going tight, his mouth tensing on panic; Yamamoto can see the tears collecting in his eyes, can feel the tremor underpinning his motions. “You should have had your guard up, god  _damn_  it, Yamamoto.”

Yamamoto blinks. “Gokudera,” he says, again in that same breathless tone. “Your voice is shaking.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Gokudera snaps. “Just  _shut up_ , I’m calling for medical support.” His fingers against Yamamoto’s shoulder tighten, press stubborn insistence into the other’s skin. “Stay awake and keep breathing, idiot.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto says. Everything hurts, he thinks, the ache radiating out into his entire chest and leaving him chill and trembling, but Gokudera’s jacket smells like smoke and coffee, and when he turns his head in to breathe against it the familiarity of the scent is enough to keep him conscious.


	23. Offer

The hallway smells like smoke when Yamamoto makes it out of the hospital room.

“You’re an idiot,” Gokudera informs him without looking up from where he’s sitting on the floor waiting. He’s changed at some point in the few hours it’s taken Yamamoto to get stitched up and bandaged and dosed on enough pain meds to get him home; his suit is gone, replaced with a shirt the color of the sky under a loose white overshirt, jeans so dark Yamamoto thinks they might actually be black and boots to match. His rings are still on, this time matched with a pair of chains around his neck, and whatever tremor was in his voice when Yamamoto last heard it is gone now, crushed flat under the growl of irritation in his throat.

“Yeah,” Yamamoto admits. Gokudera’s fingers are elegant against the line of his cigarette, bracing the minor weight of it as he draws it back to exhale another lungful of smoke into the air. “You’re right.”

Gokudera glances up at him, eyebrows drawing together at Yamamoto’s easy agreement; his gaze only holds at the other’s eyes for a moment before sliding down to his bare shoulders and catching at the line of white bandages wrapping his chest. He huffs out the last of his exhale, looks down as he pushes himself to his feet. “What happened to your shirt?”

“It was in pieces,” Yamamoto admits. He can feel his skin tingle electricity from Gokudera’s proximity, like his blood is trying to evaporate out of his veins to wind into the other’s. “And ruined. My jacket too.”

Gokudera looks at his chest again, draws his cigarette to his lips for another inhale. “Fair enough,” he says, and turns to take the lead down the hallway. Yamamoto isn’t completely sure he’s intended to follow, is too hopeful to leave the option untaken; when he steps forward it’s too fast, the motion stumbling his balance off-center and making his head spin into dizziness that wipes his vision all out-of-focus.

There’s a hand at his elbow, fingers digging in hard against the skin. “Idiot,” Gokudera’s voice echoes from what sounds like a long way away. “It’s not a race.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, takes an inhale as his vision steadies and expands back out to its full range. Gokudera’s holding his arm, supporting some portion of his weight with the grip of his fingers; Yamamoto only has a moment to notice how soft his eyes are, how warm his hand is, before Gokudera is looking away, turning back down the hallway and moving forward with a far slower pace than he first took.

“You lost a lot of blood,” he says, his voice gruff and forced into clarity. “You’ll have to take it easy for a while. Weren’t you listening to the doctors?”

“Ha, yeah.” Yamamoto can feel each of Gokudera’s fingers at his skin, each point of contact pressing heat into his veins. “I will, I promise.”

Gokudera looks at him sideways again, eyes narrowing like he’s doubting Yamamoto’s word. But “You’d better,” is all he says, drawing Yamamoto around a corner in his wake. He is showing no signs of letting go, even though Yamamoto’s steps are as steady as his own, and Yamamoto is making no effort to tug himself free. “You’ll have to take a break from those practice sessions you spend all your time in.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says. “Yeah.” The thought sends a prickle of concern down his spine, tightens a crease across his forehead; when he speaks it’s too-fast, the premonition of loss making itself audible in his voice. “Do you still want to meet me for those?”

“Not while you’re hurt,” Gokudera snaps without looking at him. “If I catch you training before you’re healed I’ll drag you back to the office myself.”

Yamamoto can hear the bite in Gokudera’s tone, the concern lacing itself under the threat, the absence of a ‘no’ in his answer. His smile tastes like relief, his laugh bubbles past his lips without any thought, and when Gokudera ducks his head it looks like a hidden smile more than anything else.

“Okay,” Yamamoto says, and takes a fast half-step forward so he’s caught up with Gokudera’s lead. Gokudera’s hold at his elbow is going softer, like he’s maybe thinking of sliding his hand free, but the friction still lingers, even the excuse of support fading as they continue. “I won’t go until I’m recovered.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera offers in lieu of any sign of satisfaction at Yamamoto’s capitulation. His head tips sideways, his eyes landing again on the white wrapping of bandages covering the ache of stitches across the other’s chest. Yamamoto can’t feel the sharp edge of the pain for the meds he was given, but there’s a faroff throb, like his heart is pushing a little harder to win every heartbeat.

Gokudera clears his throat, tightens his fingers. “How long are you going to be out?” he asks without meeting Yamamoto’s eyes.

“They said it should be mostly healed in a couple weeks,” Yamamoto says. “The stitches can come out after next week, though.”

“Huh.” Gokudera’s fingers loosen, fall to his side; his hand is back in his pocket before Yamamoto can parse the shift in the conversation, before he can even make a guess as to the cause of the retreat. “Take your time,” he growls at the floor. “It’ll be nice having the mornings to myself again.”

Yamamoto blinks, backtracks through the conversation, unwinding whatever thread of logic Gokudera has been following to this conclusion. “I’m still coming into the office,” he says, as tangled on Gokudera’s confusion as if it is his own. His laugh feels strained and uncontrolled against the tension in his throat. “No field work until I’m healed up, but someone has to do paperwork, right?”

That gets him a flash of green, Gokudera’s eyes softening as the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. Yamamoto watches Gokudera’s expression, sees the bright of his eyes and the shape of a smile at his mouth before he ducks his head, and he keeps watching even when Gokudera’s hair falls in front of his face to strip away the telltale of his expression when he speaks.

“You’re fucking terrible at paperwork,” is all he says, but he sounds better, his voice closer to its usual roughness and not the anxious strain he’s had since Yamamoto came out. When he draws to a stop Yamamoto does too, comes to a halt in the middle of the entrance hallway to wait for whatever Gokudera stopped for.

Gokudera glances at him, one more quick consideration; then he heaves a sigh and shifts his shoulders to shrug his overshirt off his arms. For a moment Yamamoto is distracted by the slide of fabric off skin, by the way the bright blue of Gokudera’s t-shirt turns his skin ethereal and pale in comparison; then Gokudera’s shoving the shirt towards him, looking out the glass of the front doors instead of at Yamamoto’s face.

“Here.” He sounds angry, sounds furious, but he won’t meet Yamamoto’s gaze, and he’s not retracting his extended hand. “Take it. You can’t go out looking like that.”

Yamamoto reaches out, closes his fingers on the fabric in a daze of polite reciprocation while he hasn’t yet completely processed what’s happening. Gokudera snatches his hand away, shoves it back in his pocket, and Yamamoto is pretty sure he’s blushing even if he can’t see the other’s face.

“Thank--” he starts, and Gokudera talks over him, snaps, “Just put it on” with so much force that Yamamoto’s mouth shuts of its own accord and he moves to draw the fabric on over his arms without trying to offer anything further, either protest or gratitude or any of the dozens of other things Gokudera doesn’t want to hear from him. The cloth is soft, worn into comfort by what must be years of regular use, the collar catching against the back of Yamamoto’s neck when he moves. It smells like smoke, the cigarettes that have become as familiar to Yamamoto as if he were the one smoking them and not Gokudera, and something underneath, too, a spicy bite vaguely reminiscent of cinnamon.

“Right,” Gokudera says, and it’s Yamamoto who speaks this time, the meds in his system and the smoke on his tongue spilling stupidity over his lips as he blurts: “Do you want to come home with me?”

Gokudera’s eyes snap up to meet his. Yamamoto’s never seen them so bright, or so wide, or so appalled.

“Just for dinner,” he clarifies, feeling his coherency melting under that stare. “I could order sushi, or make something.” He takes a breath and he can see Gokudera’s expression closing up, his chin coming down and his mouth tightening and his shoulders hunching, and he can’t figure out how to undo the reaction. “Just for a few hours,” he finishes, knowing it’s a lost cause, able to read the rejection all over Gokudera’s face without needing to hear it aloud.

Gokudera ducks his head. There’s a pause, a silence, the quiet stretching so long Yamamoto wonders if he shouldn’t leave, if Gokudera isn’t waiting for him to give up. But then:

“I can’t,” low, rough at the edges like Gokudera’s composure is audibly fraying. “Enforcers can’t leave the facility except on official business.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, feeling all the hum in his veins -- the hope, the disappointment, the embarrassment -- go cold and still as if frozen. “Right.”

Gokudera clears his throat, hard, tips his head back to toss his hair clear of his face. He doesn’t meet Yamamoto’s eyes. “What, do you need someone to walk you to your place too?”

He’s trying for teasing. Yamamoto can hear the frail shell over the sound as clearly as the strain that speaks to the effort it costs Gokudera. It’s easier for him, he thinks, to draw a smile onto his face, to tilt his head into a laugh that is almost natural. “Nah,” he says, and he tries to not turn his head to breathe in at the collar of the shirt, tries not to stare at Gokudera’s lips against his cigarette. “I’ll be fine.”

“You’d better be,” Gokudera snaps. “See you tomorrow, idiot.”

He turns away first, the hunch of his shoulders giving Yamamoto the freedom to turn towards the doors. Yamamoto’s chest is aching again, a weird deep ache that he suspects has very little to do with the stitches set under the cover of the bandages; when he pauses outside to take a breath of fresh air the knot only tightens, settling in against his ribcage like it’s coming home to stay.

When Yamamoto looks back through the doors, Gokudera’s nowhere to be seen.


	24. Explanation

The sound of Gokudera’s chair skidding back over the floor is a lot louder than Yamamoto would have expected it to be.

“ _Okay_ ,” the Enforcer snaps, vowels razor-sharp on his tongue. Yamamoto looks up in a rush, his attention startled away from his computer screen and coming into focus on a stare just shy of becoming a scowl. “What the  _fuck_  are you so absorbed in?”

“What?” Yamamoto says, all his comprehension of language failing him in the first rush of adrenaline at having Gokudera’s attention so entirely pinned on him.

“ _That_.” Gokudera flicks a hand out, rings catching the light into shattered reflections as he leans back in over the desk he just shoved back from. “You’ve been completely engrossed in whatever you’re watching for almost ten minutes now, what on earth has you so  _quiet_?”

“Oh.” Yamamoto looks back at his screen, at the flicker of movement from the live video he’s been watching since the lunch break started. “Baseball.”

Gokudera stares at him, tips his chin down into skepticism. “You’re kidding.”

Yamamoto shakes his head, offers a smile that does nothing to relieve the suspicion across Gokudera’s features. “I’m going to watch the rest of the game taped but it’s always more fun to see them live.”

“You’re watching baseball on your lunch break,” Gokudera repeats, flatline clarification like he’s not understanding some part of Yamamoto’s words.

Yamamoto’s smile isn’t an attempt at mediation anymore; it’s sincere, now, catching unreasonably wide against his lips until he has to fight to control it. He can see the game shifting in his periphery, the pitcher winding up again, but he doesn’t look away from the tension collecting at Gokudera’s lower lip. “Yeah,” he says. “Is that okay?”

“This is ridiculous,” Gokudera announces to the room empty any but he and Yamamoto. When he shoves back from his desk his chair skids another few inches, gives him the space to kick to his feet, and then he’s rounding the corner of their desks, holding to his frown like a safety net as he tips in to press his hand to Yamamoto’s desk and peer at the other’s screen.

“What’s going on?” he demands, as if Yamamoto is watching the game anymore, as if Yamamoto can possibly think straight with Gokudera so close he can see the dark of insomnia under the other’s eyes, can see the damp clinging to the very middle of his lower lip.

“The two teams are playing each other,” Yamamoto says stupidly. “Namimori’s winning.”

Gokudera tips his head, gives Yamamoto a flat look that hums through the other’s blood like electricity.

“Thanks,” he drawls. “I had no idea how to read a scoreboard.” The sarcasm is thick in the air, Yamamoto can taste it like smoke, and Gokudera is -- Gokudera is looking away, turning back to the computer so Yamamoto can suck in a desperate lungful of air.

“What’s he doing?” Gokudera says, this time without turning. When Yamamoto looks back to the screen he can see the pitcher shaking out his arm before winding up for another throw. “Didn’t the other guy already miss once?”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says, and there’s a familiarity to this, a years-old comfort to the rhythm of the game he knows like he knows his own name. Some of the tension of proximity in his shoulders gives way to let him relax against the back of his chair as he points at the counter on the screen. “He gets three tries, though. This is the second.”

There’s a blur of movement, the pitch arcing over the field towards the batter to smack solidly into the catcher’s mitt without a hint of motion from the bat. Yamamoto would swear he can  _hear_  Gokudera’s frown, can feel the lack of comprehension radiating off him in sparks of heat. “Why didn’t he even try to hit it?”

“Ah.” Yamamoto reaches up to ruffle a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t in the right place. It doesn’t count unless the ball is close enough to hit. And you can’t hit the batter either, or he gets a walk.”

“What the fuck is a walk?” Gokudera demands, and Yamamoto realizes this explanation may be something of an undertaking.

“It’s--” he starts, but then the batter is swinging, drawing the bat forward and up to catch the pitch just right, and Gokudera leans in closer to the screen, his hair shifting in Yamamoto’s periphery. There’s weight at the back of the chair, a hand resting against the support as Gokudera braces himself, and he’s talking without turning, demanding “What is that, is that a point?”

“He gets to run,” Yamamoto says, his previous answer lost between the taut attention in Gokudera’s voice and the casual pressure of the hand at the back of his chair, the friction of a thumb ghosting incidentally at the back of his collar. He can feel the movement purring over his skin, turning him hot and shivery with more than just secondhand enthusiasm for the game, and when he starts to smile he can’t figure out how to restrain the expression. “If he makes it all the way around the bases he gets a point.”

“This is stupid,” Gokudera declares, but he’s not looking away from the screen, and his hand isn’t moving. “Is this why you’re so dumb, because your head is so full of keeping track of these stupid rules?”

Yamamoto’s laugh comes easy, riding the edge of nervous adrenaline and humming with the heat rushing through his veins. Gokudera does look at him then, glances sideways and catches Yamamoto watching him; there’s a moment of hesitation, a flicker of a smile at his mouth, and then he’s ducking his head and turning back with a gruff, “What the hell are they doing now?”

Yamamoto spends the rest of the lunch break attempting to explain the rules of the game in a manner he suspects to be more confusing than it really needs to be. But Gokudera doesn’t leave, and if his thumb ends up pushing a little harder against Yamamoto’s collar than it needs to, Yamamoto doesn’t risk commenting on it.


	25. Charm

“You’re a lot heavier than you look,” Gokudera complains from where he’s dropped down to sit at the floor of the training room. “Shouldn’t you be at least a little unsteady on your feet after that injury?”

Yamamoto grins as he unscrews the lid on the bottle of water he brought in with him; the liquid is chillingly cold when he splashes it over his head, shivers against his spine in advance of the rivulets of water that trickle through his hair. “Nope,” he says, coming forward to drop against the wall alongside Gokudera. The ends of his hair drip against the shoulders of his t-shirt to leave spots of cool in the sweat-damp radiance coming off his skin. “You told me not to come back until I was fully recovered.”

Gokudera huffs and reaches up to the jacket he tossed over the table, fishing in the pocket without looking at Yamamoto. “You had better not be going easy on me,” he says as he slides his box of cigarettes free. “There’s no point in it for either of us if you’re letting me win.”

“I’m not letting you win,” Yamamoto promises. Gokudera fits a cigarette against his lips and reaches back up for a lighter; Yamamoto watches the soft catch of his mouth against the resistance, the way his eyelashes flutter his vision out-of-attention while he focuses on the movement of his hand. “That last time was all you.”

“Yeah?” Gokudera flicks the lighter on, holds it to the end of his cigarette; Yamamoto can see the flame catch and glow bright as Gokudera draws in a breath. “You were just getting distracted.”

“Ha.” Yamamoto’s gaze slides down to the sheen of sweat against Gokudera’s throat, along the dip between his collarbones, over the damp curl of his hair at his shoulder. “Guess I just needed a break.”

“Mm.” Gokudera draws the cigarette away from his lips, exhales a cloud of smoke into the air; Yamamoto blinks past the faint burn at his eyes and braces his hand against the floor. His fingers are almost touching the edge of Gokudera’s dark jeans. If he reached out another half-inch, he could fit his pinky against the seam of the denim.

“Whatever,” Gokudera says. He’s not looking at Yamamoto’s hand; he’s watching the other’s hair instead, his gaze lingering at the damp Yamamoto can feel trickling down just behind his ear. “You look like you got caught in a rainstorm.”

Yamamoto grins and leans back against the wall to rest his head at the support. “It feels nice,” he says. “You should try it, the cold is good.”

“No thanks,” Gokudera says. “I’m not fond of the wet-dog look, myself.” He brings the cigarette back to his lips, braces it at his mouth to free his hands; Yamamoto watches the drag of Gokudera’s fingers smoothing his hair back from his face, drawing the damp strands together over his ears and against the back of his neck. Gokudera’s movements are smooth, practiced past the point of intention; it’s soothing to watch the glide of his hands tugging loose strands into place, to watch the way his fingers angle and turn to hold the hair back while he pulls an elastic out of his pocket to twist around the ponytail. Yamamoto’s eyes wander against the tilt of Gokudera’s wrist, trace the smooth curve of his neck down to the loose collar of his t-shirt, and for a moment he has to press his palm flat to the floor to resist the urge to reach out and slide his fingers down along that sloping line.

“It kept getting in my face,” Gokudera says, the words grating over embarrassment, and it’s only then that Yamamoto realizes he’s staring, that Gokudera is occupying his hands with holding his cigarette again and that his cheeks are showing signs of the flushed color they usually lack.

“Right,” Yamamoto manages, because he wants to offer some kind of reassurance and it’s hard to find words when his eyes keep drifting to the back of Gokudera’s neck to trace out the few strands of hair too short to fit into the elastic, to watch the way the light catches into a sheen across pale skin.

Gokudera glances at him, looks away at his hands. “You’d better not get distracted again,” he says. When he shifts his knee the edge of his jeans presses against Yamamoto’s hand, the contact ghostly and electrifying. “You’ll have to be on your toes to take me down again.”

“Oh?” Yamamoto asks, aiming for banter to hide the way his heart is stuttering in his chest. “I thought you were saying I have the size advantage.”

Gokudera shrugs, takes one last inhale off his cigarette; then he pushes to his feet, getting up with such fluid grace that it leaves Yamamoto slow to track for a moment, tilted in towards a magnet that has just moved away. “Sure,” he says, as dismissively as if this wasn’t his own topic. His fingers brace at what’s left of his cigarette as he crushes it out in the ashtray by the door. “I wouldn’t get too complacent if I were you.”

“Really,” Yamamoto says, feeling himself starting to smile at the assumed arrogance in Gokudera’s tone. “You don’t think I can take you?”

Gokudera stops in front of him, looking down from the momentary advantage of height. He looks younger with his hair pulled back, his features a little softer and less rough with irritation; when he grins the effect is only heightened.

“Nope,” he says, and extends his hand in unspoken offering. “You might have the muscle but I have the advantage of charm.”

Yamamoto’s laugh comes without any warning, bubbling up in his throat until it’s a breathless giggle by the time it hits the air. When he reaches up to take Gokudera’s hand their fingers slip together, lock in against each other’s wrists before Gokudera takes a half-step back and pulls Yamamoto to his feet.

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says, looking down at the tension of amusement at Gokudera’s mouth. “You might be right.”


	26. Dedication

“It doesn’t make any _sense_ ,” Gokudera growls at the map set to full screen across the computer monitor they’re sitting in front of, glaring at the red points starring the display to indicate attacks. “How are they moving so _fast_?”

“Maybe--” Yamamoto starts before getting caught in an unexpected yawn. For a moment he can’t hear anything but the ringing in his ears from the stretch of his jaw; then he recovers himself enough to shake his thoughts back into order. “Did they split up?”

“No,” Gokudera grates. “I _told_ you, there’s a shot of the four of them together right here.” He reaches for the keyboard touchpad, pulls up a blurry picture as evidence; all Yamamoto can make out of it is the bright green hair of one of the group they’re looking for.

“Oh,” he says, leaning forward to rest his head against the end of Gokudera’s desk. “Right. Sorry.”

There’s a beat of hesitation, even the tap of Gokudera’s fingers on his keyboard falling silent for a moment. Then, in a tone somewhere between gentle and uncomprehending: “You don’t have to stay, you know.”

Yamamoto turns his head without sitting back up. Gokudera is watching him instead of the computer monitor, his eyes softer on exhaustion than Yamamoto has ever seen them before; even the perpetual frown at his lips has eased into unconscious consideration.

“I want to stay,” Yamamoto says, his attention wandering from the strained focus in Gokudera’s eyes to the tension at the back of his neck, tracing over the tangle that his once-smooth ponytail has become during the last few hours of effort. “You’re not leaving yet, right?”

Gokudera’s mouth curves on a faint smile, the expression so self-deprecating it tightens a knot in Yamamoto’s chest. “I’m probably not going to leave at all,” he admits, leaning back from the desk and lifting his arms to stretch out his shoulders. Yamamoto can hear his elbow pop with the movement, can see the momentary relief that drops Gokudera’s expression warm and relaxed for a heartbeat. “You don’t want to stay here all night.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” Yamamoto admits. “I’d just be back in a few hours anyway, right?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Gokudera says, reaching out to shove at Yamamoto’s shoulder with barely enough force to rock him sideways, much less to truly push him away. “You can’t stay up till morning.”

“You’re going to,” Yamamoto yawns again, the words tangling around the involuntary sound in his throat. “I’m not going to go home while you’re still here.”

“You’re falling asleep right now,” Gokudera observes. “You’re too big, you’re taking up all my desk space.” He tips his knee wide to demonstrate; Yamamoto can feel the weight of the contact pressing against his leg, the heat enough to make it through the cloth between them and tingle warm over his skin.

“I’m not leaving,” Yamamoto says again, watching the catch of a smile at Gokudera’s mouth that says he’s half-teasing, that says Yamamoto can still get away with pushing for more. He tips his weight sideways, lets himself press against Gokudera’s arm for a moment. His shoulder lines up with Gokudera’s elbow; he can feel the other go tense under the contact, like all his bones have turned to steel, but he doesn’t flinch away, and after a moment Gokudera lets out a breath and relaxes infinitesimally into the pressure.

“Get off me,” he says over the top of Yamamoto’s head. “Go home and let me work.”

“Hm,” Yamamoto hums. “Not until you do.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera growls, sounding very nearly sincere in his irritation. “I’m not _tired_.”

Yamamoto lifts his head from the desk, sits up enough to look at Gokudera straight-on. He lets his gaze wander from green eyes heavy with exhaustion to the bruised-in shadows of too-little rest under them, drags his attention over the hunch of strain in the shoulders under Gokudera’s coat. Gokudera’s cheeks darken under the consideration, a blush creeping out over his skin, and when he looks away it’s with a dip of his chin that would hide his face were his hair not tied back.

“At least get off the desk,” Gokudera says to the keyboard, reaching out to shove against Yamamoto’s shoulder. “The couch’ll be a lot more comfortable than my arm.”

Yamamoto considers disagreeing; the couch might be softer, certainly, but the contact of Gokudera’s hand at his shoulder is like fire, rippling warmth out into him until he feels heavy and languid with it. Then another yawn catches him, huge and jaw-crackingly painful, and he capitulates even before Gokudera offers another push to urge him away.

“Only for a few hours,” Yamamoto insists as he pushes back from the desk to get to his feet. “Then I’ll be back to help.”

“Don’t strain yourself,” Gokudera deadpans. “I’ll get more done without you distracting me.”

“Aww,” Yamamoto manages around a yawn, shedding his jacket to drape over the back of the couch before he sprawls onto the soft of the cushions. His legs don’t quite fit, but lying down is soothing enough all on its own to persuade his body to relax even with his feet kicked up on the arm of the couch. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.” Gokudera’s words sound gentler than usual, either because his edges are worn down by exhaustion or because Yamamoto’s drifting too close to sleep to pull apart the distinction, it’s hard to say which. Yamamoto gives in to another yawn, turns to a slightly more comfortable angle against the cushions; when he blinks his vision back into focus Gokudera is watching him, one leg angled out into the space Yamamoto has only just vacated.

Yamamoto’s mouth curves all on its own, contentment tugging at his lips in spite of the need for sleep weighting all his limbs like lead. “Don’t work too hard,” he says, even though he knows the odds of Gokudera listening to this statement are vanishingly low.

Gokudera’s smile quirks the corner of his tired mouth, sparkles a flash of bright against shadowed eyes. “Shut up,” he says. “Go to sleep, baseball idiot.”

Yamamoto shuts his eyes obediently, and when he dreams, it’s of the curve of Gokudera’s smile.


	27. Chosen

Tsuna frowns consideration at the map Gokudera has displayed at the front of the room. “So they’re probably in this area?” he asks, gesturing vaguely towards a cluster of buildings spanning a few square blocks.

“I’m certain of it, Chief,” Gokudera says, biting off his words with the odd clipped precision he always uses when he’s in what Yamamoto thinks of as his official mode. His back is perfectly straight, his tie makes a neat line of black against the white of his shirt; he’s even set his cigarette aside, is letting it burn unattended at the edge of the ashtray while he speaks. If not for the shadows still lingering under the green of his eyes, no one but Yamamoto would have any indication that the sum total of his rest the night before was twenty minutes spent drowsing over his keyboard before he startled awake and returned to work. Yamamoto is as impressed by this as he can manage under the circumstances; even with a handful of hours asleep on the office couch and two coffees drunk and another half-finished, he’s slumping over his desk and looks rumpled enough that Ryohei has asked twice and Tsuna once if he wants to leave early. At least he doesn’t have to pay attention to the details of the presentation; he got the information over the course of hours the night before, can let himself be lulled into an almost-doze now by the rough edges of Gokudera’s voice.

“There’s nowhere else they could have been to hit all the locations so quickly,” Gokudera is continuing, and Yamamoto’s blinks are coming slower with every heartbeat, his eyelids gaining weight with each motion. He forces them open, drags his attention to Gokudera’s features; he can see the motion of the other’s throat when he swallows, can see the tension curving at his lips when he speaks. “They’re splitting up sometimes as well; no fewer than two in any one attack, and sometimes all four, but the only way they’re doing all this themselves is to split into pairs sometimes.” He shifts in his chair; silver catches against his shoulder, slides free to swing against his jawline as he tips himself back. “They’re located in the central building.”Gokudera taps something at his keyboard; the map flickers, shifting into a close-up view of the city block Yamamoto watched Gokudera agonize over last night sometime after midnight and before the main lights in the office came on. “If we go in with a small team we should be able to take them out fast, before they realize we’re onto them and move again. Two, maybe three for the core team, with the rest of us as a perimeter.”

“Right,” Tsuna says, sounding only a little bit lost. Gokudera tilts back farther in his chair, reaches out to bring his cigarette back to his lips and inhale a lungful of smoke; Yamamoto watches his shoulders relax with the relief of his completed presentation, watches the curl of smoke as it drifts up towards the ceiling on the heat of Gokudera’s exhale. “Well. A main team, right?”

“Chrome and I serve best as backup,” Mukuro lilts from the back of the room, his voice as dark as the shadows of the dimmed lighting. “I’m not going to take her into a possible ambush.”

“It won’t be an _ambush_ ,” Gokudera growls, rocking forward in his chair so he can pivot and turn the sharp of his glare on Mukuro. “We got this information less than a day ago, they have _no_ reason to believe that we could track them down so quickly.”

“I’m not interested in risking my or Chrome’s safety on your certainty,” Mukuro smirks. “You’re welcome to take whatever risks you want yourself.”

“It’s _not_ a risk,” Gokudera spits. “I don’t want you at my back anyway.”

“You assume you’re part of the core team,” Hibari offers from the other side of the room. “I can handle them on my own right now and save the trouble of this needless conversation.”

“Be my guest,” Mukuro purrs.

“I can take them on!” Ryohei shouts, loudly enough to drown out whatever Hibari might have said in response along with Gokudera’s hiss of irritation. “Send me out, I’m extremely prepared!”

“Hey,” Yamamoto puts in, watching Gokudera’s jaw set into lines of tension that promise an explosion in a few more words. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Why don’t we let Tsuna decide?”

The room falls silent. Even Hibari doesn’t speak, though he’s not giving Tsuna the respect of his attention; Gokudera glances at Yamamoto, his expression tense and wholly unreadable as either gratitude or irritation before he turns around to focus his attention on Tsuna.

Tsuna blinks, his eyes going wide and startled at suddenly being the center of attention; he looks so off-balance Yamamoto nearly apologizes for throwing the decision on him. But then his shoulders straighten, his gaze steadies, and when he tips his chin down it’s like he’s become someone else, someone very nearly but not quite the Tsuna Yamamoto has known over the years.

“Right,” he says, even his voice dipping into a steadier register. “Gokudera.”

Gokudera sits up straighter in his chair, if such a thing is possible. Yamamoto’s attention slides sideways again, lands on the tense anticipation in the other’s tired eyes as he all but vibrates in his seat. “Yes Chief!”

“You’re in the core team,” Tsuna declares. “You know this group better than anyone, you’ll be able to make the best decisions in the moment.” Yamamoto watches Gokudera’s eyes go slightly wider, like he’s surprised by Tsuna’s statement; then his mouth twitches, turns itself into a smile aching with relief, and when he says “Yes Chief” the words are heavy with satisfaction.

“Who else do you want?” Tsuna asks. “For the main team. We’ll keep it small, no more than three, but you can take anyone you want with you.”

There’s a shift from the corner, Ryohei clearing his throat. “Shouldn’t there be an Inspector--”

“Anyone,” Tsuna repeats, loud enough to cut off Ryohei’s protest. “It’s your team, Gokudera, you’ll be responsible for bringing them back.” Yamamoto looks over again, watches green eyes go shocked-wide at this indication of trust; then Gokudera opens his mouth, his gaze still stunned, and blurts, “Yamamoto” with no trace of hesitation at all.

Heat uncurls through Yamamoto’s blood, pleasure and surprise coming together to override the weight of his exhaustion, and when he starts to smile it’s uncontrollable, spreading so wide over his face he can’t manage even an attempt at restraining it. There’s a beat of silence; then Tsuna clears his throat and asks “Anyone else?” with some of his usual uncertainty creeping back into his voice.

“No,” Gokudera growls. He’s not looking at Yamamoto, not-looking at him so aggressively he might as well be staring; he hunches his shoulders in on himself, ducks his chin so his hair falls in front of his face, and crosses his arms into a wall. “The baseball idiot’s enough.”

“Charming,” Mukuro drawls from the back of the room. Gokudera tenses at the sound of his voice; Yamamoto would look towards Mukuro if he could manage to stop staring at the curtain of Gokudera’s hair hiding his expression. “The perfect duo strikes again. Teamwork is a beautiful thing, isn’t it?”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Gokudera snaps, pivoting to glare at Mukuro directly. “You of _all_ people with your _pet_ \--”

“Hey,” Tsuna says, his voice cracking into shrillness as he tries to reclaim control of the room, and Yamamoto is reaching across the desk without thinking, catching at Gokudera’s sleeve and laughing “Gokudera” as easily as if they were alone and not in the middle of a room. Gokudera’s head snaps around, his eyes catch Yamamoto’s, and for a minute they’re just staring at each other, Gokudera’s mouth weirdly soft and his eyes easing out of the anger he was turning on Mukuro. Then he snatches his arm away, twists to turn his back on Mukuro again; when he speaks it’s to his knees, without looking up to meet anyone’s gaze at all.

“He’s been going over the evidence too,” vicious, each word a weapon for a battle no one is trying to fight but Gokudera himself. “He knows it better than anyone but me.”

“That’s fine,” Tsuna soothes. Gokudera doesn’t look up; he still has his head bowed, still has his shoulders set into a fortress. “You and Yamamoto will be the core team, I’ll lead the rest in a perimeter. Good work.”

Gokudera doesn’t respond. He’s smoking faster than usual, as if he’s trying to replace all the blood in his body with nicotine; as Tsuna moves to turn the lights back to full brightness and the rest of the office returns to their computers Gokudera twists towards the desk, takes the last inhale off his cigarette and shoves it against the ashtray. It’s only once the smouldering ember is crushed out that he looks up, quickly enough that Yamamoto doesn’t even have time to pretend he’s looking at something else.

“What are you staring at?” Gokudera snaps as the lights come on to grant his pale skin some human shading again.

Yamamoto could lie, but it seems as pointless as an answer would be when they both know the question was rhetorical. “Thanks,” he says instead, an involuntary smile dragging at the corners of his mouth.

Gokudera’s cheeks go scarlet, his blush hitting all at once as if he’s suddenly remembered why he should be embarrassed. “Shut _up_ ,” he spits, and kicks out with unerring aim to crush a bruise against Yamamoto’s shin. Yamamoto lets him, swings his other leg wide instead to bump his ankle against Gokudera’s; the contact gets him a hiss, but Gokudera is still blushing, and when he kicks sideways it feels more like reciprocation than rejection.


	28. Steady

Yamamoto clears his throat, leaning in close so his soft voice can be heard by Gokudera but lost in the crowd. “This is incognito for you?”

“Shut up,” Gokudera snaps, reaching out without looking to smack at Yamamoto’s shoulder. Yamamoto takes the blow without flinching, is starting to grin even before Gokudera’s cheeks darken into a self-conscious flush. “This is _stylish_.” He cuts his eyes sideways to give Yamamoto a skeptical once-over. “At least I don’t look like a high school student.”

Yamamoto looks down at his perfectly ordinary t-shirt and jeans, then back up to consider the prevailing clothing of the crowd. There are a few suits scattered among the passers-by, but this late in the evening the trend is towards short sleeved shirts, maybe with slacks and dress shoes. It’s a little fancier than what Yamamoto is wearing, sure, but:

“You definitely don’t look inconspicuous,” he observes, pushing his hand into his pocket to resist the urge to reach out for the moonlight-shine of Gokudera’s hair. The silver of it is bad enough, amid the sea of brown and black around them, but the clothes are worse; Gokudera’s rings are out in full force, bright and heavy on all his fingers, and his shirt is printed with the logo for some brand Yamamoto’s never heard of underneath a jacket with more buckles than any piece of clothing probably ought to have. His jeans are normal, or would be except for the belt he’s paired with them; the buckle is as much metal again as all his rings put together, ornate and flashy and obviously intended more for ornament than for utility.

“It’s not a matter of being unseen,” Gokudera growls. “It’s about _what_ you’re noticing. You’re not looking at the Dominator, are you?”

Yamamoto’s gaze slides backwards, past the glint of streetlights off metal and the glow of silver hair; it’s hard even to focus on the shadows against Gokudera’s back, harder still to notice the way his jacket catches out-of-line against the weapon at the small of his back. It’s only by knowing it’s there that Yamamoto can see it at all; even then he thinks he’d have to touch to be sure.

“No,” he admits. Gokudera tips his head to look at him properly, his grin catching white in the shadows of the night; his eyes look like they’re glowing, the color illuminated jewel-bright by the yellow of the streetlights.

“See,” his says, some of the strain of their mission easing out of his shoulders as he tosses his hair back. “I know what I’m doing, baseball idiot.”

“I know, I know,” Yamamoto soothes, letting Gokudera take the lead as they round the corner to the street they’ve been aiming for. “It’s your mission, after all.”

“Damn right it is,” Gokudera growls, pride audible in his tone. Yamamoto smiles from behind Gokudera’s shoulder, where the softness in his expression won’t be seen; by the time they’re approaching the supposedly abandoned building that is their target he has his amusement back under control, can offer the closest thing to a game face he can manage when the other looks back to make sure he’s following.

“You’d better be ready,” Gokudera warns. His voice is rough but his eyes are dark, blown wide on adrenaline and tight at the corners on what he will never admit is fear. Yamamoto’s own heartbeat speeds just from the secondhand strain, some sense of the stage fright he’s never before experienced flaring into his blood; he reaches for his Dominator in spite of himself, bumps his wrist against the weight of it hidden under the sweater he has looped around his waist.

“I’m fine,” he says, and then he does reach out, because Gokudera’s shoulders are hunching forward under his jacket and the tension in him is creasing lines against his expression. Yamamoto’s fingers brush the cool leather of Gokudera’s sleeve, bump the suggestion of contact against the wrist underneath; he lets his hand hover, the pressure lingering as he finds a smile to offer in exchange for the tension all across Gokudera’s face. “We’ll take them out together.”

Gokudera stares at him for a moment. Yamamoto can see his forehead crease deeper, the corners of his eyes going soft and his mouth twisting itself on something very nearly pain; then he turns away in a rush, snatches his sleeve away from Yamamoto’s hold, and growls, “Shut up or you’ll get us caught,” as he reaches to push at the door handle with more force than is required.

Yamamoto doesn’t protest the injustice of this statement. There’s no need to, for one thing, and for another the door is easing open and they really do need to be quiet, now. Gokudera holds the door until Yamamoto has taken the weight, draws his Dominator free while Yamamoto eases it shut as silently as he can manage; he’s waiting when Yamamoto turns back around, his hair turning into a beacon in the near-dark of the interior. His head tips, his hair shifts, and Yamamoto steps after him, moving down the hallway with steps light enough that their sound is lost in the hum of noise from the street outside. Gokudera slows, lets Yamamoto catch him up; they fall into step within a few strides, Yamamoto walking so close behind Gokudera that his elbow is bumping the weight of the overstylized jacket.

The hall is empty. Even in the dark it’s visibly barren, clear of furniture and dust alike; that alone is good evidence that it’s the hideout they’re looking for, even if Yamamoto weren’t already inclined to take Gokudera’s certainty as absolute truth. Gokudera knows it too; Yamamoto can see his shoulders hunching in against the weight of the dark, can see his fingers shifting to steady his grip on the handle of the Dominator. Yamamoto looks down at his own, trusting to the ghosting touch of Gokudera’s jacket to lead him forward as he flicks the safety off the weapon in his hands and lets the automated voice of the System ring in his ears.

He doesn’t know which of them trips the wire. He’s not even looking up, although it’s unlikely that vision would have saved them in the dark; there’s just a stumble, a foot -- his? Gokudera’s? -- catching on something unseen at ankle height. Yamamoto’s weight swings forward, his balance going, and he gets his foot back under him just as Gokudera says, perfectly clear into the calm before the storm, “ _Shit_.”

Yamamoto thinks for a moment that he’s gone deaf, that it’s Gokudera’s flung curse ringing loud as a gunshot in his ears. Then he realizes he’s on his knees, that he’s tasting dust on his tongue, and when he tries to breathe his throat fills with smoke. He hacks, coughs out air that he can’t replace except with more dust, and everything is shaking, the ground underneath him is shuddering like it’s an earthquake. It feels like one, seems a reasonable explanation for his scrambling thoughts; then there’s another boom of sound farther down the hall, a huge square of masonry caving in so near he flinches back from the impact with the cracked floor, and he realizes there must have been explosives set up to guard against precisely this kind of attack.

Yamamoto can’t see, the smoke in the air is too thick, but it’s cleared enough that he can wheeze through a breath, can manage a strangled “Gokudera?” that barely sounds like himself when it leaves his throat. He pushes to his feet, stumbles forward in spite of his shaky balance, coughs “Gokudera!” again while he tries to squint himself to clarity through the haze and the dim lighting. There are chunks of the ceiling scattered on the floor, the walls left barely intact and holding up nothing, the clean space around them made an instant labyrinth by the rubble; and silver hair, bright like a beacon amid the mess.

“ _Gokudera_ ,” and Yamamoto doesn’t recognize that sound either, didn’t realize he was going to speak until he did. He’s skidding forward, all but falling as he goes, and then on his knees, reaching for a leather jacket made grey with dust. “Gokudera, _fuck_ ” but Gokudera’s not moving, his hair is tangled around his face and his eyes stay shut even when Yamamoto pushes the strands back from the clean lines of his cheekbones. He can’t find any trace of blood but there’s no real way to check; it’s too dark, the dust is too thick, and it’s only when his hands start to shake that he thinks to check for breathing. He drops the Dominator he’s been holding in one desperate hand, stretches out filthy fingers to hover over Gokudera’s mouth; and there’s motion, the shift of air in an exhale, enough to turn the panic in Yamamoto’s chest into a sob of relief.

Something hits his face. Yamamoto doesn’t realize what it is, at first; it feels like a slap, maybe, enough to snap his attention sideways as something clatters against the floor. It’s metal, he sees as he picks out the shape of a knife amid the rubble, and then he feels the hurt, the numbing impact of collision with his jaw fading into the sharp pain of a cut.

“Aww.” It’s a whine, a girl’s voice; Yamamoto knows the name, studied it last night, but he doesn’t even look up from the fallen knife, from the blade catching the light. “I wanted to hit him.”

“It’s hard to see,” another voice soothes, older, more masculine. “You can just try again, Bluebell.”

“The one on the floor ain’t moving,” comes a third, rough tone. “He’d make an easier target.”

Yamamoto doesn’t hear what the girl says after that. He’s turning instead, his finger landing against the trigger of the Dominator before he’s even closed his hand on it; it’s like a magnet, like an extension of his arm, he’s firing before he’s even finished turning around. He doesn’t hear the shout of concern from the group standing in the shadows, doesn’t see if the blue light’s hit any of them, but he’s rising to his feet anyway, swinging his other hand around to brace the weapon, holding the target rock-steady as he steps forward over the debris. A second shot, a third, a fourth; he loses count, it doesn’t matter, he’s moving down the hallway and firing shot after shot at the vague shapes he can make out in the dust. There’s a cough from behind him, the sound of his name in a familiar voice, but even that’s not enough, even when it turns into a shout, into a scream for his attention; there are enemies still in front of him, dangers that need to be destroyed. Yamamoto stays where he is, faces out into the dark and fires bolt after bolt of blue light, until his vision is blurry with afterimages and there’s no movement even in the deepest shadows in front of him.

His hands are steady.


	29. Relief

It’s very quiet when Yamamoto turns back around.

Gokudera is conscious again. Yamamoto had pieced that much together, in the moments after he stopped firing at unmoving figures and was waiting for the red wash over his vision to clear. The haze of sound his mind had deemed unimportant in the heat of combat pulled itself apart into shouts for his attention, the sound of his name repeated over and over; it’s no surprise to turn and find Gokudera sitting up, not even a surprise to see the upraised Dominator that casts a weird electronic glow over Gokudera’s eyes.

The blue looks brighter, from this side.

Yamamoto lets his weapon drop. It’s pointless to hold onto it now that the threat is gone. Gokudera is still staring at the display from the active weapon in his hands, his eyes so wide Yamamoto can almost see the numbers reflected in his eyes.

He asks anyway.

“How bad?” It’s a meaningless question. The glow of the gun gives him all the information he needs, really. But he asks anyway, because it’s not the gun he’s looking at, and because he’s never seen that expression on Gokudera’s face before.

Blue-washed eyes lift to his. There’s a tension at the corners, a shaky softness at Gokudera’s mouth; when he speaks his voice trembles audibly in his throat.

“ _Bad_ , Yamamoto.”

Yamamoto knows he should be upset. Rationally, there are any number of things he ought to be feeling; panic, probably, fear or anger or shame or concern, a whole host of negativity that ought to be fighting for dominance in his veins. But what he feels is relief, cool and clean like a long-awaited rainstorm, and what he does is smile with the lifting of some endless, unbearable weight.

“Gokudera.” He steps forward, towards the glow of the Dominator; Gokudera’s arms fall, the blue fading from his eyes, and when he moves it’s to throw the weapon aside so violently it bounces off the wall. “You’re okay.”

“You’re a _fucking_ idiot,” Gokudera spits at him, the blood-vicious edge of true emotion under the words as he ducks his head forward. Yamamoto can smell the haze of dust clinging to silver hair as his knees fold to drop him in front of Gokudera. “You’re a _goddamn_ fucking _idiot_ , Yamamoto.”

“Are you hurt?” Yamamoto asks, because there’s still fear under the comfort of that relief, still an impulse to reach out, to fit his hands against every inch of Gokudera’s body to make sure he’s whole.

“ _God_ ,” Gokudera says, his head bowed so Yamamoto can’t see the expression on his face as that word spills like a sob from his throat. “Stop thinking about me, it’s _you_ I’m--”

“Are you okay?” Yamamoto repeats, cutting off Gokudera’s words as his fear spikes higher. He reaches out entirely without thinking, stretches his hand over the wall between them that has always been there before, and his fingers brush fabric instead of stalling on willpower. “Gokudera,” he repeats, and he’s leaning in closer without thinking, without any deliberate thought other than _closer, more_. His hand fits against Gokudera’s waist, his fingers settling into place against that curve like they were meant to be there. “Are you alright?”

A hand snaps out, ring-burdened fingers closing into a fist at Yamamoto’s shirt so tight he expects the fabric to tear. “ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera spits, and then he’s lifting his head, his eyes so bright with liquid they catch the faint illumination around them into a glow. “ _Yes_ , I’m fucking _fine_.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto breathes, and his heart is soaring, his gravity is dropping, Gokudera is so close and so warm and _fine_ , he’s okay, everything is going to be alright.

“ _Damn_ you,” Gokudera sobs, and his hand is coming out to curl against the back of Yamamoto’s neck. Yamamoto shudders at the contact, a full-body tremor he can do nothing to resist, and then Gokudera pulls and he doesn’t even try to hold back. He just goes, leaning in as fast as Gokudera is dragging him, and then their mouths come together and everything goes radiant. Gokudera tastes like dust from the explosions and the smoke of his cigarette from hours before and a bite of spice underneath that makes Yamamoto’s tongue burn, but mostly he’s hot, he’s fire, he’s burning the print of his mouth against Yamamoto’s lips and Yamamoto wants it, wants everything, is dragging at his hold at Gokudera’s waist to pull him in closer, to press the weight of their clothes into inconsequence between their bodies. Gokudera tips back, like maybe he’s going to say something, and Yamamoto follows, helpless to the want now that he has a taste of satisfaction. Gokudera groans when he kisses him again, curls his fingers up into Yamamoto’s hair, and Yamamoto shivers again, reaches his free hand out to slide against Gokudera’s jaw, to bury his fingers into soft-silver hair.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says against his mouth, so close it’s hard to parse the distinctions of sound into coherency. “You’re hurt.”

“No,” Yamamoto says, shakes his head as his thumb slides against the curve of cheekbone under pale skin. “I’m fine.”

Gokudera presses in close, licks a growl against the inside of Yamamoto’s mouth before he pulls back enough to say, “You’re bleeding, idiot” as he presses his palm against Yamamoto’s chin.

It’s hard to pay attention to the dull ache for the heat that hits Yamamoto’s veins at the contact. He whimpers, presses his fingers against the back of Gokudera’s neck, struggles towards some kind of coherency. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”

“ _God_ ,” Gokudera hisses, and leans in to press another bruising kiss to Yamamoto’s lips and knock him near-senseless again. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says, ready to agree to anything if Gokudera will only stay where he is, if Gokudera will only keep kissing him. “Yeah, I am.”

“We have to leave,” Gokudera insists, but his fingers are sliding into Yamamoto’s hair, his hand is dropping from Yamamoto’s bleeding chin to shove up against the bottom edge of his shirt. His rings are cold against Yamamoto’s hip but his skin is fire, arches Yamamoto’s spine into a long involuntary shudder as he slides his hand up against the other’s back. “We can’t stay here, they’ll put you in the facility.”

“That’s okay,” Yamamoto says, pressing his mouth close to kiss the dust off Gokudera’s jawline, to taste the curve of pale throat like he’s been thinking about for months. “You’re there, it’s fine.”

“It’s _not_ fine,” and Gokudera’s fingers are twisting into a fist, he’s pulling pain against Yamamoto’s hair to underline his statement. “I’m not going to let you end up there, not after all this.”

“I just want to be with you,” Yamamoto says, drawing away from Gokudera’s collar so he can blink sincerity into the shadows around them. “I don’t care where we are.”

Gokudera’s fingers ease against his hair, turn into the comfort of a stroke to match the huff of frustration he offers in response. “That’s because you’re an idiot,” he says, and then he’s bracing his hold at Yamamoto’s back as he leans in to crush another kiss to the other’s mouth, to spill another flood of coffee-bitter smoke over Yamamoto’s tongue. His hands are too-tight, his rings are leaving prints against Yamamoto’s skin and his fingers are pulling an ache across Yamamoto’s scalp, but Yamamoto doesn’t flinch away; he’s leaning in instead, taking anything Gokudera will give him, memorizing the warmth of Gokudera’s skin and the smell of his hair with every melting-hot beat of his heart.

All he can feel is relief.


	30. Plea

It’s Gokudera who takes the lead through the streets. Yamamoto has no idea where they’re going; by the time they clear the rubble of the half-collapsed building and make it out to the danger of the Scanned streets he’s lost his sense of direction, wouldn’t even be able to find his way back to the Bureau without guidance. The only thing he can pay any attention to is the shine of Gokudera’s hair against the dark of the night, the heat of the fingers locked around his wrist to lead him forward, the adrenaline-fast hiss of Gokudera’s breathing as they duck through the gaps in the scanning network.

“Shit,” Gokudera hisses, stopping abruptly before a corner and backing up. Yamamoto’s too close to him to avoid a collision, but he stumbles back as soon as Gokudera moves, falls against the wall behind him as Gokudera shoves him farther into the shadows. “Be quiet.” It’s snapped, the words harsh with irritation, and Yamamoto knows the hand pressing at his lips is likely intended to quench anything he might say, but when he falls back against the wall it’s with the heaviness of the heat that sparks into his veins rather than the need for concealment.

“What’s happening?” he asks in the softest undertone he can manage; he can barely hear it himself, but Gokudera is pressed flush against him and the curve of his ear is so near Yamamoto could fit his lips against it without even moving his shoulders.

“People,” Gokudera says, biting the words off sharp as his hand slides off Yamamoto’s mouth and skims the curve of his throat to fit against his shoulder instead. “Just wait.”

Yamamoto waits. The shadows are granting them some minimal cover, the stillness of the night is doing the rest, but Yamamoto feels like his heartbeat is loud enough to give them away all on its own, like the adrenaline crackling through his veins is hot enough to throw off sparks. Gokudera isn’t watching the street either; he’s looking back at Yamamoto’s face, the shadowed dark of his eyes sticking against Yamamoto’s mouth, and when his fingers loosen at the other’s wrist it’s only to push against the bottom of his soft t-shirt. He looks dazed, heat-drunk and as lost as Yamamoto feels, and when his hand slides up to skim against the bottom of the other’s ribcage the only thing Yamamoto can think to do is lean in and quench the gasp of his breathing at Gokudera’s lips. Gokudera growls, half a threat and half a purr, and then he’s pushing in hard, crushing Yamamoto back against the wall and slotting their legs together so he can rock in closer. The weight of his belt buckle catches the pushed-up hem of Yamamoto’s shirt, presses metal-cold against the bare skin of his hip; Yamamoto’s breathing catches in his lungs, twists itself into a groan against Gokudera’s lips, and there are fingers up under his shirt, Gokudera’s hands wandering across bare skin like he’s trying to leave fingerprints on every inch of Yamamoto’s body.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, fire-hot against the corner of Yamamoto’s mouth as his hips come forward to grind hard at the other’s leg and force all the air from his lungs in the first rush of heat. “We can’t--we have to get out of the city.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto says, but he’s arching off the wall instead of pulling away, his fingers tangling into silver hair to urge it away from the pale of Gokudera’s throat. Gokudera’s all sharp edges, from the angle of his shoulder pressing against Yamamoto’s collarbone to his hip digging in against Yamamoto’s movements, and Yamamoto can’t keep from trying to urge him in closer in spite of the need for focus.

“Let go,” Gokudera says, shoving Yamamoto backwards and trailing him in spite of his order to suck friction over his lower lip. His hand against Yamamoto’s shoulder slides back up, long fingers fitting in against dark hair to brace him against the push of Gokudera’s mouth, and Yamamoto’s eyes flutter shut, his attention scattering under the force of Gokudera’s mouth on his. There’s the weight of rings pushing up under his shirt, the drag of Gokudera’s teeth catching the edge of his lip; when he breathes in he can taste smoke, the heat of the other’s breathing spilling over his mouth, until his head is spinning too much to react immediately when Gokudera pulls away.

“You’re a mess,” Gokudera informs him in a low hiss. “Can’t you keep your hands to yourself for five damn minutes?”

“Gokudera--” Yamamoto says, listening to the way his voice trembles over the syllables, and Gokudera shoves him back again, crushes another kiss against his lips before he closes his fingers on Yamamoto’s wrist and drags him back out to the edge of the main street.

Yamamoto stumbles after him. Gokudera moves fast, taking turns with the pivot-quick efficiency of someone who knows precisely where he is going, and Yamamoto is more than content to follow the pull of the hand clasped around his wrist. He’d follow anyway -- he doesn’t need the hold to keep him at Gokudera’s heels -- but he’s not going to complain about the heat of the contact anymore than the occasional detours into darkened streets required by late-night passersby.

“Almost there,” Gokudera growls without turning around, the rhythm of his words making them a mantra more than deliberate reassurance on Yamamoto’s behalf. His hold is tightening, his fingers drawing involuntarily bruise-tight; Yamamoto moves in closer, so near his steps are only barely missing catching the heels of Gokudera’s boots. “Almost there, just a little--”

The corner is a sharp one. Gokudera takes it all at once, without slowing as he has for previous turns; Yamamoto is too close to do anything but follow, pivoting around the edge so fast he nearly stumbles against it. He’s still trying to catch his balance when Gokudera stops dead, so suddenly and so unexpectedly that Yamamoto runs into him before he realizes they’ve stopped. Gokudera stumbles forward, Yamamoto blurts “Sorry!” without thinking, and then he’s looking past Gokudera’s shoulder and it’s Tsuna staring back at them.

“ _Chief_ ,” Gokudera chokes, sounding like the title is caught at the back of his throat. His fingers flex tighter, anxious pressure driving against the tendons at the inside of Yamamoto’s wrist; then they loosen, his hold giving way to uncertainty as clearly as his voice has.

There’s a moment of absolute silence. Yamamoto can’t see what face Gokudera is making, can’t look away from the shock writ clear across Tsuna’s expression; there’s no trace of the Chief Inspector that sometimes appears in the office or on assignments, nothing at all to be seen in the other’s features but pure surprise at meeting them so unexpectedly. He’s looking from one of them to the other -- Gokudera’s bowed head, Yamamoto’s blank stare, the tangle of Gokudera’s fingers around Yamamoto’s wrist -- and Yamamoto can see the crease forming in his forehead as confusion coalesces into tension.

“What…?” Tsuna starts, trailing off to give them a chance to answer, to give them an opportunity to offer the question he clearly doesn’t even know to ask. But Gokudera stays silent, doesn’t even lift his head, and Yamamoto can feel the other’s fingers going slack on his wrist, resignation to defeat on the very cusp of freedom.

“It’s my fault,” Yamamoto says without thinking. He slides his wrist free of Gokudera’s hold, closes his fingers tight around the other’s hand before Gokudera has a chance to pull away. “My Coefficient spiked.”

It’s not enough explanation. Yamamoto knows it’s not, can feel the weight of missing logic in the panic he knows is in his expression, in the stress of failure in Gokudera’s shoulders, in the press of his fingers against Gokudera’s hand. But Tsuna looks at him, and looks at Gokudera, and his expression clears as if Yamamoto has offered the full-blown explanation the situation truly requires.

“Oh,” he says, his voice dipping into some odd resonance between understanding and sympathy.

“Chief--” Gokudera starts, and Yamamoto, quick enough to cut him off: “Tsuna.” A pause, a breath. “ _Please_.”

He’s asking for too much. Any stranger would turn them in, Yamamoto knows, much less someone whose job it is to bring in precisely the latent criminal that Gokudera is, that Yamamoto has become. But Tsuna’s eyes are dark with sympathy, and Tsuna isn’t a stranger, and it’s Tsuna that Yamamoto is asking and not the Chief Inspector.

Tsuna stares at him. There’s a flicker behind his eyes, a twist at his mouth, and then:

“Hurry,” and he’s stepping past them, making for the corner they’ve just rounded. “Hibari’s on his way back from the site, you don’t want to meet him.”

Yamamoto tightens his grip on Gokudera’s hand. “Thank you, Tsuna.”

Tsuna glances at him, a quick look over his shoulder; when he smiles it’s like the sun has risen in his face.

“Good luck,” he says, words warm with sincerity, and then he’s gone, ducking around the corner and out of sight.

Gokudera’s head is still bowed when Yamamoto looks back. His shoulders are hunched, his breathing unsteady; Yamamoto’s chest tightens on worry, his hold on Gokudera’s unresponsive hand tensing again in fear the other might be about to draw away.

“Gokudera?” He steps in close, reaches out to touch a trailing strand of hair. “Are you okay?”

Gokudera’s exhale shudders long in his throat. Yamamoto can see his shoulders relax, can see his panic easing with the relief of his exhale; then his head comes up, he looks sideways at Yamamoto, and his mouth twists into the first smile Yamamoto has seen since the explosion.

“Come on,” he says, and he steps forward, falling back into that same efficient pace. “We’re going to get you out of the city.”

His hold on Yamamoto’s hand is as tight as Yamamoto’s on his.


	31. Obvious

Without the city lights, the night is _dark_.

Yamamoto knew this, on some level. His life has been a haze of electricity, streetlights and cell phones and easy illumination he has never consciously thought about before. But stepping out past the city limits is like stepping off a cliff, moving out into a darkness so heavy Yamamoto can barely make out the shape of Gokudera’s face an arm’s length away from him, can read none of the strain that he knows is in the other’s expression. They have to slow down, too; the footing gets rougher, without the even keel of sidewalk and pavement to smooth their way, and in the dark every stumble is a possible fall, an injury neither of them can afford under the circumstances.

They don’t stop. The city is still behind them, well within sight and spilling the warm promise of illumination over the path back; Yamamoto has no idea how far they’ll need to go to be out of range of any tracking attempts, doesn’t even know if there’s any kind of cover better than the rolling hills they’re working over and the occasional low shrub or isolated tree forming a faint silhouette against the weight of the darkness. But Gokudera is moving with purpose, if with far less of the frantic tension than he was showing in the immediate danger of the city, and Yamamoto is content to follow him, to trail the press of Gokudera’s hand clasped into casual intimacy with his. That’s startling in itself, the unthinking heat of skin-on-skin they’ve been avoiding for so long; strange, to have it so abruptly present, so _allowed_ , to be able to slide his thumb over the drawn-taut tendons at the back of Gokudera’s hand and not have the pressure immediately snatched away. The awareness flushes Yamamoto’s cheeks warm with pleasure, curves at the corner of his mouth in spite of their relatively dire straits; he’s still lost in the delighted disbelief of it when Gokudera speaks, his words cutting into the pace of their breathing with no warning at all.

“I don’t know if this will be safe,” he says, his tone gruff like he’s confessing to something and wants to get the words out before he loses his nerve. “He might send us right back to the city, for all I know.”

“He?” Yamamoto asks, wishing for a light, a candle, even a full moon to give him a glimpse of Gokudera’s expression. It’s hard to pull apart the tension in his tone without the crease at his forehead and the shape of his mouth to read from.

The sigh of irritation, at least, is unmistakeable. “A doctor,” Gokudera growls, his voice dipping the title into sarcasm and coming up dripping with dislike. “A drunk, more like. He comes by to talk to whichever of the Enforcers he can get permission to see, and since I wasn’t stupid enough to attempt to inflict the bodily harm on him he _deserved_ he saw me the most.” Gokudera’s foot slips, his balance tipping; his hand clutches tight against Yamamoto’s, drags for a moment of support before he collects himself again. “But he’s the only person I know outside of the city.”

“We’re going to him for help?” Yamamoto asks, careful over the tilt in the ground that left Gokudera nearly falling.

“Do you have a better idea?” Gokudera snaps back, as defensive as if Yamamoto’s question was a criticism and not clarification. “He _said_ to come to him if I ever decided to bolt.” His voice drops lower, turns in on himself; Yamamoto’s pretty sure he’s not talking to be heard, anymore. “We’ll just have to see how serious he was about that.”

They’re silent for a few moments, another dozen steps. The ground is smoothing, or maybe Yamamoto’s eyes are adjusting; it seems less treacherous, anyway, each step a little steadier and a little less like a prayer. He can see the shift of Gokudera’s hair against the collar of his shirt, now, can make out the part of the strands against the back of his neck if he squints.

“Why didn’t you?” Yamamoto asks, curiosity in his tone rather than condemnation. “Leave, I mean, before now.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Gokudera growls towards the ground. “I have no fucking idea if I can trust this guy. He’s an alcoholic at best and a plant at worst; we might end up back in the city in cells before the sun rises. It wasn’t worth the risk before.” His head comes up; Yamamoto’s eyes _must_ be adjusting, he can see Gokudera’s shoulders straighten into pride under the weight of his jacket. “Besides, I had responsibilities to the department.”

Yamamoto looks down at their hands, at Gokudera’s fingers fitting between his so his rings are pressed into warmth between their hands. “It’s worth it now?”

Gokudera comes to a stop so suddenly Yamamoto doesn’t have time to catch his forward motion. He bumps against the other’s shoulder, stops himself against the unmoving resistance of Gokudera’s stance; when he blinks up from his focus on their hands Gokudera is looking at him, his glare so clear it’s visible even in the barely-there illumination.

“Obviously it’s worth it,” he snaps. There’s irritation crackling over the words, a low register of certainty laid under them, and no trace of regret anywhere between the sounds. “Don’t ask stupid questions, baseball idiot.”

Yamamoto’s smile comes suddenly, breaking over his lips so easily it turns into a laugh before he can form words in his throat. “Right,” he says. The tense frown at Gokudera’s mouth is magnetic in the dark. “Sorry.”

Gokudera huffs at him, his chin dipping down to let a lock of hair fall in front of his face. “I can’t believe I got stuck with you of all people,” he says, his free hand coming up to land against Yamamoto’s shoulder. Yamamoto can feel his spine curve at the contact, the usual deliberation of his posture collapsing to tilt him forward and into the touch sliding against the back of his neck.

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto says, his voice going breathless under the friction of the fingers against his skin, his free hand coming up to fit under the weight of Gokudera’s jacket and trace the seam of his shirt.

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, and leans in to kiss against the incoherent part of Yamamoto’s lips. Yamamoto’s eyes flutter shut of their own accord, his heart pounding in his chest with something less panic and more heat, and he’s tipping in, his hand pressing harder at Gokudera’s waist and sliding around to his back to pull him in closer as Gokudera’s fingers drag disorder into his hair.

The darkness around them feels like safety.


	32. Pity

It’s some distance and some time before they crest the top of a hill and can make out the faint glow of illumination from the windows of the house set into a clearing below. After the first hour Gokudera went quiet, the bite of his words giving way to silence that Yamamoto is afraid indicates that the other is too uncomfortably cold to speak without his shivers giving him away. The hand in his is gripping steadily tighter, Gokudera’s arm stiffening like he’s resisting the urge to tremble, and Yamamoto has just about made up his mind to offer the sweater tied around his waist in spite of the inevitable explosion this will cause when the glow of electric lighting comes into view.

Gokudera gives himself away with a “ _Finally_ ” Yamamoto can hear shiver against his teeth. “Come _on_ ” and they’re moving, picking up speed as they draw closer to the glow that seems warmer by the moment, until Yamamoto is nearly at a jog and Gokudera entirely there as they draw up to the front door.

“What time is it?” Gokudera asks, reaching out to rap at the door without waiting for the answer Yamamoto doesn’t have. “He’d better not be asleep, I don’t want to wait outside until he wakes up at noon.” The echoes of the sound have barely died down before Gokudera scowls, hisses, “Where _is_ he?” and knocks again, louder, with a force Yamamoto suspects has little to do with either cold or irritation and far more with nervousness about what their reception will be. He doesn’t stop this time, keeps up the demanding rhythm, and Yamamoto is just starting to flinch at the continued noise when the door comes open and cuts the sound off abruptly.

“Do you know what _time_ it is?” a faintly accented voice slurs at them. Yamamoto blinks, his eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness of the interior illumination to bring out the details of -- a purple shirt falling slick over a man’s shoulders, the edge of it untucked from what look like slacks worn without any shoes. Dark hair, the unshaved stubble of probably a day or two, a wine glass in the hand not holding the handle of the door -- and unreadable eyes, dragging over Gokudera and then Yamamoto in turn without a discernable trace of recognition in them.

“Shamal,” Gokudera grates. His hair is falling in front of his face; Yamamoto can’t make out the particulars of his expression for the angle of his chin. “You said to...to come if I needed help.”

“This isn’t just you,” Shamal says. He’s still looking at Yamamoto, skimming over the whole of him from the dark of his hair to the scuff of his shoes; then his gaze slides down, following the line of his arm to where Gokudera is standing half in front of their clasped hands, and his eyebrows go up to his hairline. “Was it too much for you to bring a _girl_ with you?”

“ _What?_ ” Gokudera spits, sounding scandalized. “Is _that_ what you were hoping I’d do?”

“You have no sense of romance,” Shamal sighs. “A reckless midnight escape is exactly the sort of thing women go crazy for.” He looks Yamamoto over again, visibly dismissing him before looking back at Gokudera. “You even _have_ a beauty in your department.”

“Give it up, old man, Chrome is definitely not interested in anyone other than _Mukuro_ ,” Gokudera spits, turning the name into a recognizable imitation of Chrome’s breathless devotion. “And _I’m_ not interested in _her_.”

Shamal shrugs, turns towards the hallway like he’s about to shut the door on them. “I don’t rescue men.”

“ _Hey_ ,” Gokudera snaps, throwing out a foot to stop the door swinging shut. He still has a hold on Yamamoto’s fingers, his grip going tighter as his voice flares into anger. “You _told_ me to come to you, where the hell else am I supposed to go?”

Shamal waves a hand. “Not my problem. You should have figured that out before you decided to bolt in the middle of the night. Didn’t you think ahead at all?”

“I didn’t _decide_ to bolt,” Gokudera spits. “We _had_ to, Yamamoto’s Coefficient spiked.”

“And you couldn’t let your boyfriend go back to the holding facilities,” Shamal drawls, making the words into a taunt.

“ _No_ ,” Gokudera lashes out, whip-quick, and Yamamoto’s attention is dragged away from the stranger illuminated by the promise of warmth and to Gokudera’s expression, to the tension against the line of his jaw and the tremble in his eyes when he blinks. “No, of course I couldn’t.” He’s not looking at them, either Shamal’s dark stare or Yamamoto’s wide eyes; after a moment he ducks his head, his hair curtaining his face again, and Yamamoto can see the fight slump out of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he says, so quietly the sound lacks any fire at all. “Forget it. I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Not like that you won’t,” Shamal says, and then the door is opening wider, the light from the inside spilling in a wide arc to turn Gokudera’s hair to white gold. “Come on, you’re letting the warmth out.”

It’s enough to bring Yamamoto’s attention away from the shock clear across Gokudera’s features, to recenter his focus on the inscrutable shadows of the other man’s eyes. He had thought, at first, the haze blurring Shamal’s vision was the fault of the wine in his glass or the lateness of the hour, but the way he’s considering them now is nothing but intent, pinning down all the details of their appearance so thoroughly Yamamoto thinks he might know them better than Yamamoto does himself.

It’s Yamamoto who speaks; Gokudera seems to have been struck dumb by this turn of events, is staring with a complete lack of comprehension at Shamal’s blank expression and the wide-open door. “Are you serious?”

“Are you an idiot?” Shamal asks, the first words he’s spoken directly to Yamamoto. “Yes, having the door open lets the heat out.”

“Why are you helping us?” Gokudera snaps, still leaning back from the entrance like there’s some kind of trap laid over the frame. “You just said you didn’t help men.”

“Stop complaining,” Shamal insists, waving a hand and turning his back to slouch away down the hallway. “You have to learn how to tell a story. No one’s going to know to pity you if you don’t tell them why they should.”

“I don’t want _pity_ ,” Gokudera hisses, but he’s moving forward into the house in pursuit of Shamal’s retreating back, his unshakeable hold on Yamamoto’s hand tugging the other along in his wake. Yamamoto stumbles after him, over the entryway and into the warm glow and warmer air of the interior, and he can feel the chill of the night air prickle into sudden heat against his skin.

It’s nothing like safe. The front door is still open, in spite of Shamal’s increasingly insistent demands that they close it, and the help of a single capricious man is no promise of success against whatever security the city may be able to muster against escapees. But Gokudera’s voice is coming easier with every shout, stress and cold alike melting into well-practiced irritation, and even in the face of Shamal’s increasingly inventive insults regarding Gokudera’s taste in companions, all Yamamoto can find at his lips is a smile.


	33. Worth

“ _God_ ,” Gokudera spits as soon as the bedroom door is shut. “I _hate_ that guy.” His hold on Yamamoto’s hand goes slack, slides away for the first time in what must be hours; it feels strange, when Yamamoto tightens his grip, to have nothing underneath the flex of his fingers. Gokudera’s storming across the width of the room -- it’s small, just a few strides, but he makes the most of it with condensed aggression, shoving a hand through his hair and spitting irritation with every step. “I can’t believe he was going to just shut the door in our faces.”

“I don’t really think--” Yamamoto starts, but Gokudera doesn’t even miss a beat to let him speak; he just growls over the other as if Yamamoto hadn’t opened his mouth.

“What kind of pervert only helps women?” He’s turned back around, is striding back towards the other, but his head is tipped down and Yamamoto can’t catch his gaze. “Why would he even _bother_ making the offer to me in the first place?”

“At least--”

“And what the _fuck_ was that about romance?” Gokudera comes to a sudden stop in front of Yamamoto, and he does look up then, glaring into the other’s face like he has some insight to offer into the inner workings of the mind of a man he met ten minutes before. “What, he wants some kind of fucking sob story?” His eyes are snapping fire, his mouth tight on a scowl; Yamamoto’s gaze drops to the tension at Gokudera’s lips, his expression going soft as Gokudera’s hardens.

“There’s nothing to pity,” Gokudera spits, and he’s reaching out, his hands are against the other’s shoulders, his hold so tight Yamamoto can’t tell if it’s desire or anger in the press of his fingers. “Just a fucking idiot who can’t even keep himself in his right mind.”

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto says, and he’s reaching out without thinking at all, thumbing against the edge of the other’s dark jacket and thinking about the hot of his mouth and the soft of his hair. “It’s going to be okay.”

“You don’t know that,” Gokudera informs him, and one of his hands goes sideways, sliding up against the back of Yamamoto’s neck, and the hard line of his mouth is against Yamamoto’s, melting into heat almost as soon as they touch. Yamamoto whimpers, reaches, and his hand is back against Gokudera’s waist, Gokudera’s pressing against him to pin him to the door with as much force as if Yamamoto was offering the least resistance. Resistance is the last thing on his mind; he’s pulling instead, fingers finding a hold against Gokudera’s back and drawing him closer as Gokudera’s foot fits between his, his movement pressing Yamamoto flush against the door. The buckle is back against Yamamoto’s hip, digging in so hard it would be painful if Yamamoto weren’t too breathless to notice.

“You’re an idiot,” Gokudera reminds him as his hand tightens heat against the back of Yamamoto’s neck and his fingers seek out the loose edge of Yamamoto’s shirt to push up under it. “There’s no guarantee things will work out, Shamal could be selling us out to the Bureau even as we speak.”

“He might not be too,” Yamamoto says, leaning in to kiss Gokudera’s frown, easing his hand down against the other’s hip and sliding his fingers in against bare skin. Gokudera makes a sound part-groan and part-gasp that comes out like a purr, pushes his hand higher up under Yamamoto’s rumpled shirt and digs his fingernails into the shape of scratches that feel like electricity more than pain. “We have a place to stay for the night, at least.”

“It’s just one night,” Gokudera says, but he’s not looking at Yamamoto’s eyes; he’s staring at his mouth instead, his eyes turning into shadows and suggestion, his lips parted on unconscious consideration. “It’s not _enough_.”

“It’s better than it was,” Yamamoto says, trying to find the words to pin down the flutter of adrenaline in his veins, to frame the relief so strong even the uncertainty of tomorrow isn’t enough to steal his effervescent joy.

Gokudera does look at his eyes then. His lips are still parted, the shape of his frown half-forgotten in the shadowed heat in his gaze; his eyes are strange, soft at the corners and almost sad, like he’s not sure if he wants to glare or to cry.

“It won’t be if you get taken in,” he says, and when he kisses Yamamoto its desperate, a strange bruising force that steals all of Yamamoto’s breathing and prickles the threat of tears behind his eyes. “It’ll just be a tragedy, then.”

“It’s not yet,” Yamamoto offers, and then he ducks in himself and fits his mouth to Gokudera’s with all the weight of months behind it, all the careful-slow appreciation he wants to press to the other’s lips, against the dip of his collarbones, into the sharp corners of his wrists. Gokudera makes a sound into his mouth, tightens his fingers against Yamamoto’s hip, and Yamamoto leans in closer, tips in until their joint balance teeters and Gokudera has to stumble backwards to catch them. Gokudera growls something unintelligible in protest of this treatment but Yamamoto can’t stop smiling, can’t resist the pleasure tugging his mouth into a curve even when Gokudera makes a fist at the collar of his shirt and drags him around and away from the door.

“So what,” Gokudera demands, the words pouring rough over Yamamoto’s lips as he steers the other backwards over the floor by his hold at his shirt. “So it’s worth it, just like that?” His hand at Yamamoto’s hip comes up, braces solid against his chest and shoves; Yamamoto’s balance goes, he falls backwards to be caught by the soft of the bed under him. Gokudera drops in over him, the shadow of his shoulders catching the glare of the light from Yamamoto’s eyes, and Yamamoto stares up at him, struggling to find his breathing as the illumination halos Gokudera’s hair. “All this time resisting and it’s all pointless in the end?”

“I just want to be with you,” Yamamoto admits. His hand comes up, curls into a hold against the bottom of Gokudera’s jacket. “That’s all I ever wanted, I think.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera tells him, closing his hand on a fistful of Yamamoto’s hair and leaning in to bite against his lower lip, to lick the smoke of an unseen fire over his tongue. His fingers are back under Yamamoto’s shirt, urging the fabric up with deliberation instead of accident this time, and Yamamoto is arching to meet him, his motions made involuntary by the magnetism crackling off Gokudera’s body. “I _knew_ it would turn out this way, I _fucking_ knew it the first day you walked in the door and looked at me the way you did.”

Yamamoto laughs, the sound shaky and trembling. Gokudera’s fingers are shoving his shirt up over his shoulders; he has to let his hold on the other’s jacket go so he can lift his arms enough for Gokudera to drag his shirt off and free. “Was I that obvious?”

“Did you think you were _subtle_?” Gokudera rocks back to rest his weight over Yamamoto’s legs; whatever chill from outside was clinging to him is gone, now, he’s radiant like he’s stolen all the heat of the absent sun. He shrugs his jacket free, lets it fall to the side of the bed; when he leans back in Yamamoto can see the edge of his collarbone against the loose neckline of his t-shirt, can track the flex of his arms as he braces himself over Yamamoto’s bare shoulder. “Jesus, Yamamoto, you hadn’t even sat down before you gave yourself away.”

“I wanted to kiss you so bad,” Yamamoto admits, fitting his fingers under Gokudera’s shirt and easing it up by an inch. He’s not completely sure Gokudera will let him continue, but the only reaction he gets is a shuddering exhale and a flutter of tension across the taut line of the other’s stomach, and that’s enough encouragement to slide the fabric up higher, to bare the pale skin he’s only ever seen this much of in his imagination. “This whole time, it’s all I wanted to do.”

He’s not expecting Gokudera to laugh, to pour shadowed amusement over him. Gokudera’s grin is very bright, sparking starlight into the smoky dark of his eyes, and then he leans in, blows a hot exhale against Yamamoto’s mouth so Yamamoto starts to turn towards his lips involuntarily.

“Is that all?” Gokudera asks. Yamamoto can see his eyelashes shift when he blinks, the dark of them casting his gaze into something endless and inscrutable. “Just a kiss, huh?”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, his thoughts melting away into incoherency as Gokudera shifts his knee back and lowers his weight over Yamamoto’s hips. The metal of his belt buckle clinks faintly against the button of Yamamoto’s jeans; Yamamoto’s hands form into fists on Gokudera’s shirt. “ _Gokudera_.”

“ _I_ wanted more than a kiss,” Gokudera says. His mouth is drifting against Yamamoto’s cheek, pressing close to his ear as his voice dips into a range so soft every words rumbles into a growl. His hips shift, slot together with Yamamoto’s, and if the bed offers less resistance than the alley walls did earlier Gokudera makes up for it with how hard he grinds against Yamamoto, with the way he angles his leg in closer to press flush against the other’s jeans. “You and your stupid undone ties and your long legs and your damn training, _fuck_ , as if I needed to see you in less than what you usually wore.” He’s going hot with anger; if it weren’t for the shape of his cock pressed hard against the other’s hip Yamamoto might even think his irritation sincere. “And after all that you go and get tangled up with me _anyway_.” A tilt of his hips, friction so strong Yamamoto’s breathing stutters out of him with complete disregard for its set rhythm, and Gokudera’s hand is sliding down his chest to push him back to the bed as fast as he arches up. “ _Fuck_.”

“I know,” Yamamoto says, and he’s got his hands on Gokudera’s skin again, sliding up over the shift of anxious breathing in the other’s ribcage and tracing out the curve of his spine as his shirt comes up higher. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re not,” Gokudera growls into his ear. His fingers are against Yamamoto’s jeans, now, pushing the button open and dragging at the zipper with an efficiency that steals all Yamamoto’s breathing. “You’re not sorry at all.”

“I’m sorry you’re upset,” Yamamoto clarifies. When he pushes at the edge of Gokudera’s shirt Gokudera ducks his head free of the collar, lets the fabric slide over his head in a tangle of silver hair. His hand draws away for a moment as he strips his shirt off his arms, but then he’s back and leaning in closer, and there’s more bare skin than Yamamoto knows what to do with.

“Sure you are,” Gokudera grates disbelief, but he’s kissing Yamamoto before the other can frame himself to honesty, catching the whine that spills up Yamamoto’s throat as fingers slide to dip into the open front of his jeans. Gokudera’s touch is fire, smouldering heat under Yamamoto skin and thrumming into his blood, and then his fingers brush against hard-flushed skin and Yamamoto groans and jerks in a shudder too sudden and reflexive to fight back. Gokudera growls, low and purring with satisfaction, and then he’s pushing Yamamoto’s jeans halfway down his legs, coming back to curl his fingers in against the base of the other’s cock, and Yamamoto can’t think straight.

“Gokudera,” he blurts, but Gokudera isn’t watching him; he has his head tipped down to stare at the movement of his hand as he slides his grip up in a motion no less smooth for how desperate-fast it is. Yamamoto jerks, groans, and he’s grabbing at Gokudera’s shoulder, not sure if he’s bracing himself or trying to buy a moment of clarity. “Wait, Gokudera, I--” Gokudera strokes over him again, jolts another shudder up along his spine, and he groans instead of finishing his thought, a shattered “ _God_ ” shaking up his throat.

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, but he sounds hot, delighted, like he’s relishing the taste of the command. “Shamal’s going to hear you, idiot.”

“I can’t--” Yamamoto tries, but words are sliding through his mental grasp, he’s clutching at Gokudera’s shoulder like it will somehow grant him the foundation for coherent speech. He can feel Gokudera’s rings pressing against him as proof that this is reality and not another one of his late-night fantasies made more real by exhaustion, can hear the pant of Gokudera’s breathing catching faster in time with his own. Gokudera’s staring at his face, his eyes wide and mouth gone entirely soft around the gasp of his breathing; there’s color all across his features, collecting dark and high on his cheekbones, and he was right, kissing isn’t enough, even this isn’t enough to sate the greedy want that unfolds itself inside Yamamoto’s chest.

“Wait,” Yamamoto says, and reaches out to stop Gokudera’s movement while the other’s expression is still tensing on confusion and his hand is still slowing to an uncertain stop.

“What?” Gokudera snaps, the stain of pleasure over his cheeks turning into self-consciousness that comes out of his throat as irritation. “What the fuck is wrong?”

“I want,” Yamamoto starts, and then, because it’s the easiest answer and because it’s the truth: “You.”

Gokudera’s forehead is creasing, his mouth falling into its usual frown. “ _What_?” he growls, incomprehension dark all across his face. “The _fuck_ , Yamamoto, you--” and Yamamoto reaches out, hooks his fingers inside the edge of that ostentatious belt and tugs, the motion far more clear than any half-coherent words could be.

Gokudera’s words die in his throat. He looks down, to the shape of his hand still curled around Yamamoto, looks back up; his rising anger has vanished. Now there’s nothing but wide green eyes staring at Yamamoto with what is mostly but not quite entirely disbelief.

“Right now?” he asks, like he needs clarification, like he’s not sure Yamamoto means what he does.

Yamamoto pulls harder, drags Gokudera in closer to him by his hold. “ _Please_ ” he says, and he’s tilting up closer, trying to press himself as near to the other as he can get. “Please, Gokudera.”

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, and when he blinks disbelief gives way to heat instead, a flood of anticipation sweeping through his expression and falling out of his throat as a sigh. “ _Fuck_.” He lets Yamamoto go, leans back over his heels, but it’s not a refusal; he’s ducking his head to work open the intricacies of his belt, the fall of his hair covering the color across his cheeks. Yamamoto stares for a moment, helpless as ever to the way the light turns Gokudera’s hair into something inhumanly beautiful; then Gokudera growls “Are you going to at least get your own pants off?” without looking up, and Yamamoto comes back into himself a little, enough to sit up and struggle out of what remains of his clothing. Gokudera’s moving as fast; by the time Yamamoto looks back up the other’s leaning in closer, shoving him back down to the bed before Yamamoto can get more than one breathless glimpse of pale legs and the sharp edge of a bare hip. There’s too much skin, too much warmth; even the accidental friction of Gokudera’s knee against the inside of his thigh makes Yamamoto jerk and shudder against the slide of the other’s lips on his. When he reaches up his hands touch heat, curl into a gentle hold at hip, shoulder, and then Gokudera is twisting away again, tipping over the edge of the bed and fumbling for something unseen while Yamamoto tries to remember how to breathe.

“Fucking hell,” Gokudera’s growling, so softly Yamamoto is sure it’s not directed at him. “He’s _got_ to at least have lotion or something.” There’s the sound of a drawer opening, something being moved, and Yamamoto is just turning his head to kiss the line of Gokudera’s bare neck when the other purrs “ _Yes_ ” and comes back up over his knees with a bottle in hand.

“I knew it,” he announces, twisting the lid open so he can spill liquid over his fingers. “One good thing about staying with a pervert, I guess.” The lube catches the light as he moves, turns his skin slick and damp, and Yamamoto’s throat goes tight on a whimper, his hand reaching out like he can summon Gokudera in against him. Gokudera glances at him, his eyes blowing wide and black at whatever he sees in Yamamoto’s face; then he grins, bright and reckless and hot, and drops the bottle to the floor so he can lean in over the other.

“You want this that much?” he asks, the purr on the words turning them rhetorical. He still has his rings on; Yamamoto can feel the weight of them against the inside of his thighs as he angles his knees open, as Gokudera’s hand slides electricity over his skin.

“Yes,” Yamamoto says, because Gokudera deserves to hear the answer. Gokudera’s leaning in closer; he reaches up for that tangled hair to press his fingers into it. Gokudera’s eyelashes flutter, his throat darkens on a groan, his touch skims against Yamamoto’s skin. “Yes, I do, I’ve wanted this _so_ long.”

“Yeah?” Gokudera asks. His finger slides, presses in, and for a moment Yamamoto can’t breathe for the rush of heat that comes with the friction of Gokudera’s touch inside him. Gokudera makes a sound, a strange gasping groan, thrusts his finger in deeper. “ _Fuck_ , Yamamoto.”

“Gokudera,” Yamamoto manages as the friction sweeps out over his senses, as that one point of movement entirely swamps his attention for anything else. “ _God_.”

“You’re so--” Gokudera cuts himself off, ducks his head even though he’s too close for his hair to cover the gasp of air at his lips or the color across his cheeks. “Jesus, can’t you stay _quiet_?”

Yamamoto opens his mouth to apologize just as Gokudera slides his touch in deeper, pressing heat out into his blood that answers the question with a moan instead. Gokudera chokes a laugh over him, sounding strained and sincere, and draws his hand back for a slow thrust in again. Yamamoto’s back arches, his knees falling wider like he’s inviting Gokudera for more; the friction is all under his skin, now, as if every motion of Gokudera’s hand is pouring heat directly into his blood instead of just stroking a few inches into his body.

“This is insane,” Gokudera says. Yamamoto blinks, forces himself back to attention, but Gokudera isn’t looking at him; he’s watching his hand as he draws his finger back before pressing two together and slicking them against Yamamoto’s entrance. He only looks back up as he starts to press in; Yamamoto gets a glimpse of darkened green eyes, a suggestion of damp across parted lips, and then his head is tilting back, his eyes shutting of their own accord as his throat spills another response to Gokudera’s fingers stretching him open.

“I didn’t think--” Gokudera starts, stops, his fingers are easing deeper and Yamamoto is starting to shake, his fingers tensing into an accidental fist in Gokudera’s hair. “Fuck, Yamamoto, this wasn’t ever supposed to _happen_.” The friction draws back, slides forward, the movement easy enough that Gokudera can set a rhythm to it even as he spreads his fingers to push Yamamoto wider, to force him into dizzying heat.

“You were supposed to stay away from me,” Gokudera informs him as his touch burns under Yamamoto’s skin, as the strands of his hair tangle around Yamamoto’s desperate hold. “If you weren’t such an idiot you would have _behaved_.”

“I don’t care,” Yamamoto gasps, his hips tilting off the bed to meet the slide of Gokudera’s fingers. He can feel the edge of the other’s rings bumping his skin on each forward stroke. “I’m glad.”

“Idiot,” Gokudera says, tensing his fingers and angling his wrist until Yamamoto groans through an exhale and shudders against the sheets. “You _shouldn’t_ be.”

“I am.” Yamamoto gasps as Gokudera’s fingers slide out of him to leave him slick and hot and aching for the loss of friction. He reaches out to fit a hand against Gokudera’s waist, to ground himself in the moment as he looks down to watch Gokudera slide slick fingers over his cock with efficient haste before reaching out to push Yamamoto’s knee needlessly wide. Gokudera’s breathing hard, Yamamoto can see the effort shifting in his shoulders, and he’s not looking up, his attention is pinned so tight on what he’s doing Yamamoto can see the effort it costs him clear in his frown. “I’d rather be with you.”

Gokudera shudders out an exhale, looks up to meet Yamamoto’s gaze. His eyes are wide, full of something that is a little bit fear and a little bit hope and a lot of something hot and dark and sweet. Yamamoto sighs, as satisfied by that expression as by the friction he’s aching for, and Gokudera’s forehead creases, his mouth drawing tense for a moment like he’s uncertain.

Then: “You idiot,” without looking away, and he’s sliding forward in one long movement that arches Yamamoto’s back as taut as it will go. Gokudera’s groaning something meaningless, a low rumble of sound Yamamoto can feel all down the length of his spine, and they’re fitting closer together now than they ever have before, Gokudera’s pale skin pressing flush against the tan of Yamamoto’s. They must look good, Yamamoto thinks in some distant haze of his awareness, with Gokudera’s fingers still bracing at his knee and his hand caught in Gokudera’s hair, and then Gokudera moves, thrusting through a fluid stroke, and whatever Yamamoto was thinking vanishes into a single thought, a single sound against his lips.

“ _Gokudera_ ” and Gokudera’s gasping for air like he can’t breathe, Yamamoto can feel the other’s body trembling against him. It’s too much to take in, the friction and the heat and the slick of fingers against his knee, the soft of silver hair against his palm, the pressure of Gokudera pushing him open and everything is warm, everything is silver-bright in his hazy vision.

“Jesus,” Gokudera is saying, and “fuck,” and “Yamamoto, you feel so _fucking_ good,” spilling the words desperate-fast over his tongue, and Yamamoto can’t answer, he can’t do anything but gasp huge lungfuls of air and arch himself closer, pull Gokudera down nearer to him until his cock is dragging against the flat of the other’s stomach with each thrust Gokudera takes into him. They fit together like this, the strain in Gokudera’s shoulders curving him in to match the tremble of sensation in Yamamoto’s chest, fit together the way Yamamoto always knew they should, until it’s not even the expectation of satisfaction he feels but the pleasure of the moment, everything spiraling away into unimportance except for the sound of Gokudera’s breathing and the green of his eyes.

“Gokudera,” he says, breathless like the air around him is evaporating, and his fingers go loose, slide up into Gokudera’s hair as the other groans and drags his fingers higher up Yamamoto’s thigh. “I’m _glad_.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera says succinctly, and then he closes his fingers against Yamamoto’s cock and everything flares white. Yamamoto gasps, fills his lungs with air as the heat in him swings into inevitability, and then Gokudera’s fingers stroke over him and he’s coming, tensing around the pressure inside him and spilling sticky across Gokudera’s fingers and his own stomach. He doesn’t know what he’s saying between the waves of pleasure rushing through him, if it’s Gokudera’s name or pent-up affection or a confession of love, maybe, it’s too much to think through and too much to listen for as the words spill over his lips. Whatever he says is enough; Gokudera takes an inhale that sounds very nearly like a sob, ducks his head in against Yamamoto’s shoulder, and when he gasps “ _Yamamoto_ ” the resonance on the word shudders down Yamamoto’s spine as a prelude to the rush of heat into him as Gokudera’s rhythm stutters into the trembling stillness of satisfaction.

For a long, long moment, neither of them move. Yamamoto’s fingers are sliding idly through Gokudera’s hair, feeling out the soft of the strands he’s wanted to touch for months; his heart is pounding frantic-loud in his chest, the thrum of his pulse meeting and matching the shuddering inhales Gokudera is taking against his shoulder. Then Gokudera groans, incoherent and protesting, and pulls away and draws back over the bed all at once. Unfortunately for his attempt the bed is narrow, barely wide enough to contain two people, and Yamamoto doesn’t have to have reacquired conscious thought to turn instinctively in towards the other and reach out for the angle of his hip. Gokudera heaves a resigned sigh that isn’t rejection and Yamamoto tugs him back in, fits their knees together and trails his fingers down across Gokudera’s waist like he’s memorizing the curve by touch as well as sight.

“It’s worth it,” he says, quiet but clear, takes a breath and lets it out in a rush. “No matter what happens, it’s worth it, now.”

A hand lands in his hair, fingers dragging into a fist. “Just like that?” Gokudera growls over the top of his head. “One orgasm and you’re completely satisfied?” A tug, so sharp it’s actively painful. “Your priorities are _fucked_.”

“Mm.” Yamamoto tilts his head to ease the drag at his hair, looks up to see the way Gokudera is glaring at the ceiling, his familiar frown back in place. “Are you not happy?”

Gokudera glances at him. “No fucking way,” he says, biting the words off. “No way am I just gonna give up because I got laid _once_.”

Yamamoto grins, bubbles a laugh. “That’s not what I mean,” he protests, the sound falling weak as Gokudera’s other hand settles into his hair to match the first.

“It had better not be,” Gokudera growls. “You’re in this with me till the end, now.”

Yamamoto smiles. “Okay,” he says, as if he needed any persuading, and Gokudera draws him in for a kiss that tastes like a promise.


	34. Scan

“No,” Gokudera grates. He’s leaning in the doorway to the room, arms folded and shoulders hunched into the most aggressively resistant body language even Yamamoto has yet seen from him. “No fucking way.”

Shamal doesn’t even protest. He just reaches across the cluttered table, stretching over an array of unused test tubes and a tangle of wires and papers for a black shape Yamamoto doesn’t recognize as a Scanner until the other lifts it. It crackles unpleasantly when Shamal pushes the button, offers a high electronic whine that makes both Gokudera and Yamamoto flinch, but Shamal doesn’t so much as blink, just twists in his chair and lifts the Scanner in Gokudera’s direction.

“You wanted my help,” he says without looking at the display. “This is how I help. If you want to try to get out of the country on your own with a Coefficient of…” He glances at the readout, keeps talking almost without a pause. “A hundred forty, you’re welcome to give it a try.” He lowers the Scanner, angles himself farther back in his chair. “It’ll go as well for you as it does for everyone else.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera spits. “I’m not letting you put a fucking _tracking_ chip under my skin, do you think I’m some kind of idiot?”

“Apparently you are,” Shamal drawls. He looks sideways at Yamamoto, swings the Scanner around to point at him instead. “What about you?”

“I’m with Gokudera,” Yamamoto says immediately, while the faint glow from the Scan is still playing over his features. Gokudera isn’t looking at him when he glances over; he’s glaring at Shamal, jaw set so tight it’s as good as a shout for expressing his mental state.

“Yeah, yeah.” Shamal waves a hand, attention on the Scanner instead of Yamamoto’s face. “You’re completely devoted, you’re totally in love, you’d follow him anywhere.” He raises an eyebrow at the readout, looks back up to Yamamoto. “Your Coefficient isn’t that high, you know. You could probably bring it down with some medication and therapy.”

“He can’t,” Gokudera says, spitting the words like poison. Yamamoto glances at him but he’s staring at Shamal still, looking like he’s ready to throw himself into a fight if necessary. “It’s not bad most of the time but it spikes.”

“What causes it?” Shamal asks, looking at Gokudera as if he’s likely to get an answer from that source. Gokudera doesn’t speak, just presses his lips together into white-line tension, but it doesn’t make a difference; Yamamoto doesn’t need to hear the words to be reminded of the way Gokudera looked in that first moment of post-explosion disorientation, his hair tangled over his face and his body too still for Yamamoto to see the pace of his breathing. He remembers the pain of a cut too unimportant to be felt, the offhand declaration _he’d make an easier target_ , and the weird breathless calm that settled over him, that moved his arms and legs for him, that fired blue light from the weapon in his hands and wished for bullets instead of electricity.

“Damn,” Shamal says, the level tone of his voice enough to drag Yamamoto back into the present. Shamal’s watching the Scanner again, eyebrows raised and mouth quirked on a humorless smile, but Yamamoto is looking to Gokudera instead of waiting for the verdict he knows already, taking in a lungful of air as the memory of that murderous cold fades against the soft almost-hurt behind Gokudera’s eyes.

“Well,” Shamal says, setting the Scanner aside. “You’ve both got one choice, then, and that’s to do things my way.”

“That’s not a _choice_ ,” Gokudera spits. His voice is shaking just a little; when Yamamoto looks at him his cheeks are flushed with something between embarrassment and unhappiness, their shared memory as clear in his face as the blue light was in his eyes. “Not if there’s not another option.”

“Sure there is.” Shamal tips back in his hair, slouches against the support; his lab coat is open over what Yamamoto is pretty sure is the same purple shirt from the night before, although it’s worked its way completely free of the other man’s pants by now. “You can turn yourselves in and plead for mercy.”

“No,” Gokudera says, and there’s no heat under that word this time, just the stubborn certainty of a wall. “We’re not going back.”

“Then you do this,” Shamal says, reaching out over the table to rummage through devices Yamamoto doesn’t recognize and pieces of disassembled tools. “Just because you don’t like your options doesn’t mean you don’t have them.”

“Fuck this,” Gokudera says. “Fuck _you_.”

Shamal rolls his eyes. “I’m not any happier to be helping you than you are to be here,” he says. “If you want to stand there and pout all day, be my guest.” He lifts his free hand, gestures to Yamamoto. “You first.”

Yamamoto considers their options, Gokudera’s silence, Shamal’s steady stare, weighs them against all the intuition he can muster regarding the other’s trustworthiness; then he takes a breath, and makes a decision.

“Okay,” he says, offering agreement and motion before Gokudera can unfold himself from the doorway with a “ _Hey_ ” that sounds more like panic than the irritable argument he was offering before. Shamal’s tugging what looks like an undersized gun free from the mess on the table as Gokudera strides forward to stand hip-close to Yamamoto; the doctor squints at the device, considering something he doesn’t share, and then sets it aside so he can reach into the pocket of his lab coat instead.

“How tall are you?” he asks without looking up from the shadows of his clothes.

Yamamoto blinks. “One eighty one centimeters.” Shamal tugs a black case from his pocket, opens it to frown at an array of silver canisters inside. “Why?”

“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Shamal says without looking up. The case is set on the table and Shamal produces a box of gloves from somewhere and tugs them on with more grace than Yamamoto expected of him. It’s only then that he selects one of the tiny tubes from the box, squinting at it like he’s reading something too small for Yamamoto to see. His hands are far steadier than Yamamoto has seen them be since they arrived, the more remarkable since he’s not at all sure the older man has yet slept.

“Arm,” Shamal says, opening the side of the device and fitting the tube inside. He’s moving quick, no action wasted as he tears open an alcohol packet, wiping first over the needle-end of the gun and then across a square space halfway up Yamamoto’s forearm. Yamamoto realizes what’s going to happen a moment before Shamal presses the gun to his arm and dips the needle under the skin in a fluid motion; there’s a flicker of pain, an unpleasant ache of action, and then Shamal’s drawing away, wiping the needle again while Yamamoto huffs a startled exhale at the hurt spreading up his arm.

“What did you do?” Gokudera demands, reaching out to grab at Yamamoto’s wrist and turn his arm up for the other’s consideration. There’s a bump under his skin, Yamamoto can see, the shape of the metal tube barely visible even when he knows where to look. Gokudera’s hands are shaking against him. “ _Fuck_ you, Shamal, what the _hell_ did you put in him?”

“Calm down,” Shamal says, reaching out to bump Gokudera’s arm with the Scanner. “See for yourself.”

Gokudera snatches it out of Shamal’s hand, doesn’t even offer a thanks; Yamamoto’s arm is still aching but the pain is receding, turning to a dull throb instead of the sharp hurt of the initial action. Gokudera lifts the Scanner, hesitates for a moment; then he presses down on the button. Yamamoto can feel the other’s fingers loosening on his arm, his hold going slack with shock as he stares at the screen.

“What the fuck?” he asks succinctly. “How...how can it drop that much that _fast_ , even if it’s meds it’s--”

“It’s not medication,” Shamal says. “I was trying to tell you before you flew off into a tantrum. At least your boyfriend’s reasonable in conversation, even if he goes homicidal when you’re hurt.”

“He does _not_ \--”

“That’s not his Coefficient,” Shamal goes on, talking loud to cut off Gokudera’s protest. Yamamoto looks at him then, his attention finally drawn away from the high flush of adrenaline across Gokudera’s cheeks and the bright of concern in his eyes. “It’s picking up someone else’s in place of his.” Shamal shrugs, mouth turning on a smile that looks a lot more sincere than his earlier expression. “Developing that made getting people like you out of the country a hell of a lot easier.”

“ _You_ developed it?” Gokudera blurts, sounding entirely disbelieving. “You’re a _drunk_.”

“You just don’t appreciate the finer things in life,” Shamal says. He’s reaching for the black case again, turning through the canisters inside rather than meeting Gokudera’s glare. “Like women, for one.” Gokudera glares, Yamamoto chokes on a startled laugh, and Shamal holds up a tube, squinting at Gokudera. “How tall are you?”

“One seventy five,” Gokudera says, so fast Yamamoto blinks surprise at him. Gokudera’s not meeting his eyes; he’s watching Shamal, his mouth set like he’s bracing for a fight.

Shamal looks from Gokudera to Yamamoto, eying the gap between their heights. “One seventy five,” he says, his tone completely flat. “Sure about that?”  
“Of course I’m sure,” Gokudera growls. “What’s the problem?”

Shamal shrugs, reaches for the gun. “Whatever,” he sighs, loading the second canister as easily as he did the first before gesturing for Gokudera’s arm. Gokudera extends it without protest, holding his scowl as Shamal wipes over his skin with a fresh alcohol swab and sets the needle against his arm. It’s harder to watch Gokudera flinch through the pain that it was for Yamamoto to feel it himself; Gokudera’s fingers tighten on his elbow for a moment, his forehead creasing at the hurt, but he doesn’t make a sound, and Shamal hasn’t even set the gun down when Gokudera turns back to Yamamoto and reaches out to shove the Scanner at him.

“Scan me,” he says, voice rough on skepticism.

Yamamoto takes the Scanner. It feels strange to aim it at Gokudera, even with the weight and shape of it all wrong to be the Dominator it reminds him of, but Gokudera is glaring at him with so much strain in his eyes it’s enough to override all Yamamoto’s other considerations. He turns the view on Gokudera, pushes the button down -- and watches the numbers skip up to fifty, drop down to thirty, and level off alongside the clearest Hue he’s ever seen.

“Thirty-seven,” he says, because Gokudera is still staring at him with the lines in his face going from anger to tension as he waits. “It’s working.”

The expression Gokudera makes is strange. Yamamoto watches his forehead relax, his eyes go wide and painfully soft at the corners; even his mouth goes slack, shivering for a moment like he might be on the verge of tears. Yamamoto lowers the Scanner, sets it aside on Shamal’s cluttered table, and reaches out to wrap his free arm around Gokudera’s shoulders even though they have an audience, even though his arm is aching and Gokudera’s must still be throbbing with hurt. When he tugs Gokudera capitulates to the pull, presses the wide-open vulnerability of his expression against the barrier of Yamamoto’s shoulder while his fingers tighten into an anxious hold on the other’s elbow.

Even after Gokudera’s breathing has steadied, Yamamoto doesn’t let go.


	35. Telling

“This was a terrible idea,” Gokudera growls from the bed as Yamamoto pushes the door shut behind him, while he’s still in the middle of ruffling his hair dry after his shower. Gokudera’s not looking at him; he’s staring at the inside of his arm, rubbing against the faint outline of the chip set under the skin. It looks raw, red and swollen from the pressure in a way that makes Yamamoto flinch and step forward, reaching out reflexively to pull the fretful fingers away from aching skin.

“Hey,” Yamamoto says, the word coming out in the shape of a plea as he touches Gokudera’s wrist and draws the contact away. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

“What?” Gokudera looks up at him, blank like he doesn’t quite understand the question; then down at his arm, to the angry color swelling around the chip. “Oh.” He jerks his hand away from Yamamoto’s hold, but when he brings his hand back down it’s to curl his fingers into a fist and press it safely against his jeans instead of to continue his worrying.

“It _is_ a terrible idea,” he goes on after a moment, as Yamamoto moves to sit on the bed next to him and, after a moment’s hesitation, slides in close enough that he can lean into Gokudera’s shoulder and press his face into silver hair. “That perverted doctor is going to sell us out, I _know_ he will.”

Yamamoto hums gentle skepticism against Gokudera’s shoulder. “He hasn’t yet.”

“And now we have fucking _chips_ under our skin,” Gokudera goes on, reaching for his arm again before Yamamoto catches his wrist and tangles their fingers together to remove the possibility. “We would have been better off on our own.”

“He says he can get us out of the country,” Yamamoto says. Gokudera’s going warmer the closer he gets, like Yamamoto’s touch is draining the tension out of his shoulders and replacing it with heat; he tilts in closer, and presses his forehead against Gokudera’s jaw. “If we can get past the border we’ll be really free.”

“ _If_ ,” Gokudera repeats, coating the word in bitter distrust. “That’s a lot of weight for one word.” He reaches up with his free hand, shoves his fingers through Yamamoto’s hair. “You’re still wet, don’t you bother to dry your hair?”

“It dries on its own anyway,” Yamamoto says, shutting his eyes to the drag of Gokudera’s touch across his scalp. The friction shivers sensation along his spine, purrs heat into his blood.

“This is how you get colds,” Gokudera growls, but he’s not drawing his hand away; his fingers are sliding through Yamamoto’s hair, down across the back of his head to his neck, and Yamamoto is tipping forward under the contact, curling in closer with each inch of movement.

“I don’t really get colds,” Yamamoto says. Gokudera’s touch slides over his skin, presses in against the back of his neck and under the collar of his shirt; when Yamamoto breathes in he can taste the smoke clinging to Gokudera’s clothes. “It’s been years since I was last sick.”

“Stupid baseball idiot,” Gokudera says without any bite to the words. Yamamoto’s thoughts are going hazy as Gokudera’s fingers drag across his skin to push the collar of his shirt out of shape and dig into the dip between his shoulders; he reaches out to close his hand on the edge of Gokudera’s shirt, and there’s no sign of protest to meet him. “Just because you haven’t before doesn’t mean you won’t in the future.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto agrees, and turns his head up to bump at Gokudera’s arm as he presses his face against the curve of the other’s throat. “You’re right.”

“You’re not listening to me,” Gokudera growls, tipping his head to the side so his hair slides free and leaves his neck for the press of Yamamoto’s mouth.

“I am,” Yamamoto says. When he kisses heat just under Gokudera’s ear he gets himself a shiver, faint but unmistakeable for how close they are together. “You’re worrying about me.”

“Shut _up_ ,” Gokudera snaps, twisting until Yamamoto can see the bright of his eyes and the frown at his lips. “You’re an idiot,” and his hand is back in Yamamoto’s hair, his mouth pressing heat against Yamamoto’s lips. Yamamoto capitulates without even an attempt at resistance, shutting his eyes and tipping his head into closeness, and Gokudera turns towards him, draws his fingers free of Yamamoto’s only to catch the other’s head between both hands. His rings catch against Yamamoto’s hair, tug a momentary flicker of pain across the other’s scalp, and then Gokudera’s licking against his mouth and anything else Yamamoto was thinking about dissolves. His thoughts are hazy, his hands are warm against Gokudera’s waist, and then Gokudera pushes and he falls backwards to the bed, balance giving way in warm submission to Gokudera’s touch.

“You’re a mess,” Gokudera informs Yamamoto, leaning in over him so his hair falls into shadow around his face. One of his hands slides free, skips down to catch at the edge of Yamamoto’s jeans, and Yamamoto’s breath sticks into anticipation even before Gokudera’s fingers curl in under the edge of the waistband. “I should never have gotten tangled up with you.”

Yamamoto’s smile comes easy but turns bittersweet at his mouth, the comfortable fire in his veins running up against the strain of worry behind Gokudera’s eyes. “Sorry,” he says as Gokudera’s fingers work his jeans open, as the other’s hand winds idly through his hair. “I couldn’t help it.”

“Why _not_?” Gokudera asks, the bite in his tone all out-of-keeping with the drag of his fingers urging Yamamoto’s jeans open and off his hips, with the push of his touch sliding against the inside of Yamamoto’s thigh before coming back up to drag against the heat of his cock. “You didn’t _have_ to talk to me, you didn’t have to look at me like you did.” His fingers tighten, the pressure of his hold familiar as deja vu, and when he strokes up Yamamoto’s voice breaks onto a whimper of shivering appreciation. “You didn’t have to follow me everywhere I went.”

“I did,” Yamamoto manages, reaching up to press his hand against Gokudera’s face, to slide his thumb over the sharp edge of cheekbone he’s spent so long seeing over the uncrossable width of a Bureau desk. “I couldn’t stay away, I had--” Gokudera’s fingers tighten and jerk up over him, and Yamamoto hisses, hips arching him up off the bed to meet Gokudera’s touch. “ _Gokudera_.”

“ _Why_?” Gokudera’s staring at him, brows drawn in dark over his eyes and mouth set in a frown of concentration; it’s strange to see him so focused when Yamamoto’s attention is fraying away under his touch, when Yamamoto can feel his mouth falling open on helplessly desperate breathing as Gokudera’s hold slides up over him. “Why couldn’t you think of _yourself_?”

“Because--” Yamamoto stalls out, words tight in his throat but pinned down by the force of self-restraint, by hesitation too familiar to override.

“ _What_?” Gokudera hisses, sounding inordinately irritated though his touch is still gentle, still dragging pleasure out into Yamamoto’s veins against the tension of uncertainty stopping his words. “Tell me.”

“I don’t think--” Yamamoto’s words die to a gasp, his vision going hazy under the slide of Gokudera’s thumb against him. Heat is rushing through his veins, crushing him under waves of rising anticipation as his heart beats faster in time to Gokudera’s touch, his skin going damp with a sheen of sweat to replace the clinging wet from the shower. “Do you really want me to tell you?”

There’s a pause, a breathless inhale of understanding; Gokudera’s motion stops for a moment, Yamamoto’s body arching in protest of the halt even as his breathing stills for the answer. When he blinks himself into focus Gokudera is staring at him, the intensity in his eyes turning itself from irritation to focus, like he’s turning a problem over and over in his mind.

Then: “Yes,” he says, frowning certainty down at Yamamoto. “I want to hear it.”

“I love you,” Yamamoto says, the phrase falling like a sigh of relief from his lips. Gokudera’s eyelashes flutter, his head ducks as his expression eases, and he starts moving again, stroking up over the other as Yamamoto reaches up for him and twists his fingers into the fall of silver hair. “God, Gokudera, I love you so much, I’d do anything for you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Gokudera says, but he’s smiling, even if his head is dipped down so Yamamoto can’t see the expression in his eyes. “You’re such a fucking idiot.”

“I am,” Yamamoto agrees, his spine tensing as Gokudera’s touch slides up over him in one long stroke, as the weight of rings catches startling sensation just against the head of his cock. “ _Ah_. I know.”

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, and lifts his head to meet Yamamoto’s heat-hazed stare. His eyes are overbright with what Yamamoto thinks might be tears, but his smile is soft and painfully gentle against his lips, and when he leans in closer he’s all Yamamoto can see.

“Tell me again,” he says, eyes dragging over Yamamoto’s features like he’s trying to memorize them, like he’s pressing a touch against the other’s skin just by the force of his gaze alone.

“Gokudera--”

Gokudera turns his wrist, strokes up hard. “Tell me now,” he says, and Yamamoto sucks in air and chokes out another confession as Gokudera’s touch presses against him and urges him over the edge into orgasm. The words get tangled somewhere around the heat in his throat, come out sounding like a moan in his chest, but Gokudera is purring over him and Yamamoto’s trembling under him, arching up in desperate little motions to match each pulse of pleasure that washes through him. There’s a laugh, low and hot and smoky, and then Gokudera’s mouth against Yamamoto’s, stealing whatever breath he had left before the shivers of satisfaction have yet faded from his body.

“You’re an idiot,” Gokudera informs him, unwinding his sticky hold as Yamamoto reaches for the other’s jeans to fumble the fly open with much determination and absolutely no grace. Gokudera doesn’t try to stop him; Yamamoto can feel how hard he is against the inside line of the denim, his cock pressing the fabric taut enough that Yamamoto has to be careful working the zipper open. “You’re an idiot and you have terrible taste in men.”

“I don’t,” Yamamoto protests, fitting his hand down inside the rumpled fabric of Gokudera’s clothes so he can press his fingertips against the flushed heat of the other’s cock. “You’re perfect.”

Gokudera startles into a laugh and tips sideways so he’s lying across the bed instead of angled over Yamamoto. Yamamoto pushes himself up onto an elbow, holds his balance in spite of the languid heat weighing his body; the effort is worth it for the angle he gets on Gokudera’s face, for the way he can see silver hair tangling against the sheets and green eyes illuminated bright by the light overhead.

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, pushing against his clothes to force them away from the rhythm Yamamoto is setting with his hand and easing the stroke of his fingers. “Don’t be an idiot, I’m not _perfect_.”

“I think you are,” Yamamoto says, watching Gokudera’s forehead crease with tension and his mouth go soft on his breathing. “You’re wonderful.”

“Well at least now I know what your problem is,” Gokudera manages. He’s hot against Yamamoto’s hold, visibly struggling for the coherency needed for speech. “You’re absolutely fucking insane, how did the System not notice _before_ now?”

Yamamoto smiles, would laugh if he’s weren’t so warm and hazy with the pleasure of his own satisfaction and the anticipation of Gokudera’s. “Maybe,” he allows, leaning in closer as Gokudera’s breathing catches into a faster rhythm, as Gokudera’s hand comes up to brace against his hip. “I don’t think I am.”

“Crazy,” Gokudera insists, his voice shivering in his throat as his expression tenses, his body going taut as Yamamoto strokes over him. “You’re... _god..._ you’re crazy.”

“I love you,” Yamamoto says again, tipping in closer without thinking, like he’s trying to steal the air off Gokudera’s gasping inhales. “Gokudera, I love you.”

Gokudera’s eyes focus on his, his expression going soft for a moment; there’s something sad still caught against his mouth, stress still hidden behind his eyes, but he looks warm and gentle for a moment, his usual otherworldly shell breaking away to let him into humanity for the span of a breath. Gokudera’s hand tightens against Yamamoto’s hip, Yamamoto’s hold on him slides up, and he can see the attention in those green eyes slide away as all the complexities of Gokudera’s expression give way to the shuddering blankness of pleasure. His mouth comes open, his eyelashes flutter, and for just a moment Yamamoto’s awareness of the world falters to reform itself around the part of Gokudera’s lips and the almost-pained groan of orgasm in his throat. Then Gokudera collapses to the bed, shuddering into aftershocks from the first rush of heat, and Yamamoto takes a inhale that comes out shaky and breathless around the pressure of adoration in his chest.

“God,” he says while Gokudera still has his eyes shut and is taking deep breaths as the trembling through his limbs steadies. “You’re beautiful.”

Gokudera’s mouth tightens into a frown, one eye opens to glare at Yamamoto. “Shut up,” he tells him, curling the fingers at the other’s shirt into a fist to press against his ribs. “You’re embarrassing.”

Yamamoto’s not sure he would go quiet even then -- the temptation of words left unsaid is too much of an ache in his throat -- but Gokudera’s other hand comes up to catch his hair and pull him down to a kiss, and he’s willing to fall obediently silent for that.


	36. Frantic

Shamal moves faster than Yamamoto expected him to. The rough footing through the trees is easier to manage by daylight, far more so than it was on the moonless night two days ago, but Yamamoto would have expected the other’s apparently-constant intoxication to at least make him unsteady on his feet as they cut straight across hills and through forests, following a route as straight as if drawn with a ruler. But Shamal is quick, ducking between the trees so rapidly it’s hard even to keep sight of him, until it’s Gokudera’s early-morning unhappiness that is the limiting factor far more so than the older man’s speed.

“Couldn’t you have given us some _warning_?” he growls now as he trips for what must be the fifth time in the last half hour. “Five minutes and I could have at least had a cigarette.”

“Do you want to get out of the country or not?” Shamal asks without turning around or waiting for any kind of an answer. “Stop whining about how I do things.”

“Asshole,” Gokudera grumbles, but it’s soft enough that Yamamoto is pretty sure Shamal can’t hear. He ducks his head after that, watches his feet instead of glaring at Shamal’s shoulders, and Yamamoto matches his pace, lingering a step or two behind with Gokudera instead of pressing as close at Shamal’s heels as they ought to be.

The runway comes into sight first. The expanse of pavement is hard to miss, surrounded by trees as they have been; it’s only after Yamamoto has put together what he’s seeing that he notices the fence in their way, the height enough to deter any but the most daredevil trespassers even without the barbed wire wound around the top. Shamal doesn’t even hesitate; he takes a sharp left, cutting through the trees to sustain some minimal cover as they move towards what Yamamoto can see is a gate set into the fence.

“Do exactly as I tell you,” Shamal says, glancing back at them for the first time since they left the house. His expression has that startling intensity again, like he’s set aside the inconvenience of intoxication as it suits him; his eyes rake over Yamamoto, dismiss him, narrow at Gokudera.

“Keep your head down,” he snaps, reaching out to shove his head forward and down. Gokudera hisses irritation, reaches up to smack Shamal’s hand away, but he drags his hood forward anyway to cast his face in shadow.

“It’s fine,” Yamamoto tries, attempting to ease the tension crackling between all three of them, but all that gets him is Shamal turning on him and frowning with more of a chill on the expression than any of the scowls Yamamoto is used to receiving from Gokudera.

“It’s _not_ fine,” Shamal tells him. “If anyone sees that hair they’re going to remember it and this entire scheme will be ruined. _You’re_ not so bad, no one will think twice about an ordinary Japanese kid, but _he_ stands out like a sore thumb.” He looks back at Gokudera, huffs frustration. “Just remember to keep your head down.”

Gokudera doesn’t answer aloud. Yamamoto can see the tension along his jaw, can see the raw anger settling at his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything, and whatever it is Shamal is looking for, it seems frustration isn’t among his concerns. He moves them towards the gate, leading the way in a slide of dead leaves and soft earth; Gokudera follows, Yamamoto trailing behind, the two of them catching up at Shamal’s shoulder just as he braces his hand against the padlock holding the chain on the gate shut, leans in against the fencepost itself, and slams the lock against it with a deliberate force so experienced as to look professional. His weight on the post keeps the sound from anything above a brief, dull thud, and the lock in his hand falls open at the impact as cleanly as if it was intended to do so.

“Hurry up,” Shamal says in a viciously intense undertone as he twists the lock free and tugs the chain loose of the fence. When he pushes the gate open it’s only by a few inches, his hold on the links enough to brace it in place; they have to duck to fit under his arm, the edges of the fence dragging against their borrowed clothes like it’s trying to hold them on the other side. Then they’re through, Gokudera dragging his hood forward to hide nearly all of his face and Yamamoto’s heart pounding drumbeat-quick as Shamal slides through in their wake, clicking the lock back into place as efficiently as he removed it. When he turns back around his eyes are unfocused, his steps shaky as they haven’t been all morning; he flings an arm around Gokudera’s shoulders, leans in so close Gokudera starts to tip away reflexively, and slurs, “Did I tell you ‘bout my girlfriend?”

“What the _fu_ \--” Gokudera starts.

“Not enough,” Yamamoto cuts in before Gokudera can finish the curse. He has no idea what Shamal is talking about, but it’s easy enough to play along even without that background. “Didn’t you say she was really beautiful?”

“Coulda been a _model_ ,” Shamal says, his voice jumping louder like he can’t control his volume as they cut across the pavement towards the building Yamamoto can see catching the rising sun, towards the silver shape of a private jet like a resting bird against the runway. “‘Stead she wanted to be with me. Romantic, yeah?”  
“Sure,” Yamamoto agrees, not sure what he’s supposed to say but trying to fill in the gaps for Gokudera’s obvious irritation.

“Got a huge inheritance when her father died,” Shamal goes on. They’re making for the plane, Yamamoto can see, even if their route is shaky and far more wandering than the path they cut through the forest. Shamal looks back at Yamamoto, gives him an enormous wink and a sloppy grin. “Rich women, am I right?”

“You’re disgusting,” Gokudera growls in what he probably intends as an undertone.

“That’s what she likes about me,” Shamal leers, and then there’s movement from the plane, a figure stepping out to the top of the stairs from the main body of the jet, and he drops his hold on Gokudera’s shoulders to stumble forward with both arms outflung. “Bianchi, darling!”

“Go away,” the woman -- Bianchi -- says, almost without looking at Shamal. Her gaze is drawing to Yamamoto and Gokudera instead, the slide of her attention so brief as to be nearly insulting before she looks back at Shamal.

“Bianchi,” Shamal croons, tripping over the first step to the plane and only barely catching his balance. “Come on, sweetheart, didn’t you miss me?”  
“Not even a little,” Bianchi says, turning to step back into the plane as Shamal makes it up another step and takes a grab at her. Shamal stumbles after her, trailing pleas formed of her name as he goes, but Yamamoto waits, watching Gokudera stare after them. There’s a crease in his forehead, a frown at his lips; Yamamoto can see the uncertainty clear across his expression, can see hesitation writing itself into the shadows behind his lashes. For a moment Yamamoto isn’t sure Gokudera’s going to move; the tension in his shoulders says he’s thinking about bolting, the angle of his feet tilting him back towards the relocked gate. They can’t get back through it from this side, Yamamoto knows, not without Shamal; even their currently low Coefficients won’t be enough if they get brought into the Bureau, with dozens of pairs of eyes that would recognize either of them at a glance. Running at this point would be all but suicide, insanity in its most self-destructive form, and Yamamoto knows all of that.

He still waits for a sign from Gokudera.

Finally there’s a huff, a gust of air that settles Gokudera’s expression into deeper creases across his forehead. “Fuck it,” he says aloud, so softly Yamamoto can barely make out the resignation on the sound, and he takes a step towards the stairs. Yamamoto trails him, aiming for the casual distance Shamal told him to keep from the other; it’s hard, with Gokudera so close and so tense, but it’s only for a moment as they climb the steps into the plane.

“What’s wrong with you?” Shamal demands, grabbing the back of Gokudera’s jacket and dragging him forward into the enclosed space. There’s only a few seats inside, set at far more of a distance than Yamamoto has seen on the few flights he’s been on before, and no one sitting in them; there’s Shamal at the doorway, Bianchi turning to face them from the end of the space, and two young men standing on opposite sides of the interior like they’re a welcoming committee.

“There’s no time,” Shamal informs them, shoving Gokudera towards the stranger on the left side of the plane. He has hair pulled back into a ponytail near enough to Gokudera’s style to pass at a quick glance, the color light if not quite the right shade of uncanny silver. “Switch with Basil.” A hand presses flat at Yamamoto’s shoulders, urges him farther into the plane as Shamal steps away from the doorway. “Fuuta, hurry up.”

“Of course” the other man says. He’s noticeably taller than Basil, nearly of a height with Yamamoto though his shoulders are a little thinner; Yamamoto thinks he might be younger, too, but that might just be the soft hazel of his eyes. He smiles, reaching out to catch at Yamamoto’s wrist and draw him to one side of the space as Shamal moves past them to join Bianchi at the back.

“We need to switch clothes,” Fuuta is explaining in a voice as soft as his eyes. Gokudera’s snapping something, questions or demands Yamamoto’s not sure which, but there’s an urgency under Fuuta’s tone that suggests immediate action in spite of its deceptive sweetness, and Yamamoto doesn’t look over.

“Okay,” he says, and starts shrugging off his jacket as Gokudera snaps, “ _Fine_ ” in response to whatever it is Basil has asked of him.

“Bianchi, darling,” Shamal is saying as Yamamoto draws his t-shirt off over his head and accepts the tight-fitting red tank top Fuuta was wearing in exchange. “Don’t I deserve a kiss for my hard work?”

“Do you want a broken nose?” Bianchi asks in a tone that suggest she is only faintly interested in the answer. “I’d be doing the women of the world a favor.”

“Here,” Fuuta says, drawing Yamamoto’s attention away from the conversation in the back corner. He reaches for the overshirt Yamamoto’s just shrugged on, tugs at the collar until it lies flat. “Better.” Yamamoto reaches for the last piece -- a jacket, the crisp lines of it looking expensive even tossed over the edge of the table -- and Fuuta stops him, reaching out to push his hand aside.

“Not yet.” He’s unfastening his jeans, pushing the much-darker denim off his feet even as he speaks. “We have to take the chip out before you cover your arm. Pants first.”

Yamamoto obeys. His head is spinning between the array of conversations: “What the fuck’s wrong with your pants?” from Gokudera, a half-apologetic “We’ll just roll the legs up” from Basil. “You told them I was your girlfriend, didn’t you?” Bianchi asks, and “It’s barely a lie, honey!” plus an attempt at a kiss from Shamal. It’s too difficult for Yamamoto to try to track what’s happening, even if it was possible to unravel the pieces of action around him; easier to push his jeans off, hand them to Fuuta’s waiting hands before working the tight fit of the dark fabric up his legs and over his hips. Fuuta changes faster, as rapidly as if he’s used to this; he might be, Yamamoto realizes, considering the level calm in his eyes as he takes one of the seats and gestures Yamamoto to do the same.

“I’m going to need your arm,” Fuuta announces, producing a pair of latex gloves from somewhere Yamamoto didn’t see. Yamamoto offers it to him without any protest; he can see see Gokudera in the corner of his eye, struggling with folding up the edges of his pants but otherwise dressed in far more stylish clothing than that which they arrived in.

Fuuta drags an alcohol swab across Yamamoto’s arm; the liquid evaporates almost immediately, leaving a chill across the skin that tells Yamamoto to brace himself even before Fuuta says, “This is going to hurt a little” as he breaks the vacuum seal on a scalpel. His fingers brace against the plastic handle with the familiarity of experience; in all truth he looks more professional than Shamal ever has, the reassurance of his pose enough to ease any tension from Yamamoto’s shoulders. He’s quick with the cut, too, dragging the edge of the blade in a short slice against Yamamoto’s arm with no trace of hesitation; Yamamoto barely has time to hiss hurt before Fuuta is setting the scalpel aside and pushing against the cut to force the cylinder of the chip out.

“It’s for the scanners along the fence,” Fuuta explains as he sets the chip aside and wipes the trickle of blood away from the narrow cut before it has a chance to stain any of the clothes or the table under them. “It’s tricky to get Shamal in in the first place, a high Coefficient would tip off security before you even made it to the plane.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says. There’s a hiss from Gokudera, a bit-off “ _Fuck_ ” that draws his attention sideways for a moment; Gokudera’s grimacing at his arm, Basil flinching and offering apology as he wraps a bandage around the cut.

“Security is going to be here in a minute,” Fuuta says, sweeping the wrappers off the table and into a bag. The chip he sets aside in its own tiny bag, zipping the top of it shut before he peels off his gloves and discards those too; he pockets the chip, pushes back from the table, nods to the jacket. “Put that on.”

“Fuck,” Gokudera says again. He’s shrugging into a jacket that looks just as expensive as Yamamoto’s; it fits him better than the jeans do, marks out the line of his shoulders in a way that reminds Yamamoto of the suits they wore at the Bureau, if without the formality of the shirt and tie to go with it. “You could have _warned_ us, Shamal.”

“Stop complaining,” Shamal says, waving away Gokudera’s protests. “I’m doing exactly what you asked of me, don’t be ungrateful.”

“Fuck you,” Gokudera growls. He looks good in Basil’s clothes; the sharp lines of the fashionable clothing are appropriate for him, Yamamoto thinks, turn the angles of his features into those of a model or an actor, something gorgeous and striking and untouchable.

“Those clothes suit you,” Bianchi echoes Yamamoto’s train of thought, unfolding from the lean she’s sustained against the back door. “You look like you might actually be Italian.”

“I told you,” Shamal says with what sounds like pride. “It almost makes up for his boyfriend.”

Bianchi glances at Yamamoto, tips her head to the side. “Lean back more,” she orders him. “You look too formal, you’re supposed to be here to have a good time.” Yamamoto tips back, uncertain as to what she means, and Bianchi heaves a sigh and leans in to shove at his shoulder and tug at his arm. Her hair sweeps forward over her shoulder, skims against the sleeve of the jacket Yamamoto’s wearing as she rearranges him. “Here,” she says, and “there,” and she’s leaning back, turning a critical eye on his position.

“Better,” she says. “Don’t move and you’ll be able to pass as one of mine.” She glances back at Gokudera, sighs again. “The hair is a problem.”

“He wouldn’t dye it,” Shamal declares as Gokudera’s face goes dark with irritation. “I told him blond would be better.”

“No time for it now,” Bianchi says. She strides through the plane to the front, ducks through the curtain between the passenger space and the cockpit. There’s a brief flurry of speech, a growl of “Hey!” and then she’s returning with a black fedora in hand, the curve of the brim and across the top screaming elegance as much as everything else about her. She sets it on Gokudera’s head, tilts it forward over his features; Gokudera makes a face, reaches up to adjust it, and Bianchi smacks his hand away as casually as if she were expecting this reaction.

“It’ll work,” she declares, and then there’s the sound of voices outside, the stamp of boots against pavement, and she’s turning away towards Shamal again, her expression dropping into lines of anger so instantly it leaves Yamamoto breathless.

“I _told_ you,” she spits at him, stepping in closer as Fuuta and Basil get to their feet and move away from the tables Gokudera and Yamamoto have been arranged over. “I never want to see you again, what are you _doing_ here?”  
“Come on, baby,” Shamal drawls in such a convincing tone Yamamoto is sincerely uncertain it’s an act. “You know you don’t mean that.”

The _crack_ of Bianchi’s palm connecting with Shamal’s face comes just as the footsteps of newcomers echo up the stairs. Yamamoto’s skin goes hot with panic, all the muscles in his body cramping into strain; he doesn’t turn, doesn’t dare move. He can just see Gokudera in his periphery; Gokudera’s not looking at him, or at the guards, or at Bianchi. He’s staring at the wall instead, his face gone utterly white; he looks like he’s going to pass out, like he’s thinking about being sick. Yamamoto wishes they were near enough to touch.

“Get _out_ ,” Bianchi says, a coldly level tone that cuts instinctive fear through Yamamoto’s blood even atop the flush of panic rushing through him, and then she turns, pivoting cleanly to consider the newcomers to the plane with all the dignity of a queen. “Officers, remove this _individual_ from the premises.”

“That’s what we’re here to do.” Yamamoto risks a glance up; the guard is staring at Bianchi like she might be about to unleash her fury on him as well, his stance tilted back towards the door of the plane. “Sir, you are trespassing on a private area, we’ll need to escort you and your friends off the property.”

“Just meeting my girlfriend,” Shamal slurs, sounding far more drunk than he has until now. “She didn’t answer my calls, I was worried about her.”

“Come along, sir,” the guard sighs, stepping forward to close his hand on Shamal’s shoulder and urge him towards the exit. He doesn’t even glance at Yamamoto or Gokudera; when he looks up it’s to consider Fuuta and Basil, both of them standing close together by the door of the plane.

“That’s them,” the other guard by the door of the plane offers, watching the readout on the Scanner he has trained on them. Yamamoto’s blood goes cold, shivering itself into ice; at the angle they’re at the blue light washing over Fuuta and Basil is well clear of him, but the edges of it are brushing over Gokudera’s shoulder, threatening a scan if it tilts to the right by any measurable distance. “Come on, you two, you don’t have permission to be here.”

“I am sorry about this, ma’am,” the first officer says as he escorts the still-mumbling Shamal down the steps of the plane. “It won’t happen again.”

Bianchi’s head tips back, her eyes dark with the judgment of absolute self-assurance. “It had better not,” she says, and then, without missing a beat, “Hayato, Takeshi, let’s go.”

It’s startling to hear his first name delivered so casually by someone he met five minutes before. Yamamoto can see Gokudera’s shoulders tense as he looks up at Bianchi, his eyes going telltale wide and panicked, and he can see the blue light sweeping sideways as the guard turns towards them, his attention drawn by Bianchi’s words. It settles over Gokudera’s shoulders, more than enough to get a clean read, and for a brief, insane moment, Yamamoto’s body tenses on the impulse to lunge forward, to throw himself between Gokudera and the light as if it’s a bullet, as if it’s death itself coming for them.

“Ma’am,” the guard says, his voice dipping into calm professionalism as the Scanner beeps an electronic warning, as the light goes red. “I’m afraid I can’t let your assistant disembark.”

Yamamoto can’t breathe. He can’t think, can’t move, can’t even blink to cut off the horror as clear across Gokudera’s face as it is across his own. When Bianchi speaks it’s startling; it’s odd to realize there is still air in the room for someone other than himself.

“Excuse me?” She steps forward again, past Gokudera and Yamamoto. Her hair ruffles in Yamamoto’s peripheral vision. “What’s the problem _this_ time?”

“His Coefficient is over the cutoff,” the guard says, and then the light swings over to Yamamoto, calmly scans and rejects him just as surely as it did Gokudera. “We can’t let either of them into the country.”

Bianchi heaves a sigh. “You expect me to travel within a foreign country without my assistants to support me?” A toss of hair, a gust of wind. Yamamoto can smell perfume sweet and heavy in the air. “Because of this absurd _calculator_ you have in place? Neither of them have done anything more illegal than stealing a candy bar in all the time I’ve known them.”

“They’re considered latent criminals within Japan,” the guard says, in the distant tone of someone reciting too-familiar lines. “I cannot permit them to enter the country or disembark the vehicle. My apologies.”

“Fine,” Bianchi says, her voice so cold it chills the ice in Yamamoto’s veins that was considering melting. “Remove yourself from my plane and I will remove both them and myself from _your_ country.”

“My apologies.”

“I have no need for your apologies,” Bianchi announces. “Leave.”

There’s a moment of hesitation; then footsteps, boots against metal, and Bianchi is moving past the entrance to the front of the plane.

“Reborn, shut the door,” she calls, drawing the curtain back. “Japan doesn’t find itself willing to welcome us.”

There’s the sound of machinery whirring, the metallic clank of the stairs drawing up and in. Somewhere Bianchi is talking, her voice dropping to a low murmur to match the masculine tone barely audible from the cockpit. But Yamamoto isn’t listening; all he can hear is the click of the door shutting, the latches locking the exterior down before the engine purrs itself to life and the plane jerks into motion. The movement is dizzying, overwhelming without the assistance of sight to steady Yamamoto’s bearings, but he doesn’t look out the window; he’s watching Gokudera, staring at the sustained stress at his mouth and the unseeing glaze of his eyes. He still looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, his skin so utterly pale it’s hard to believe he’s human and not the fashionable doll he resembles.

Then the plane jolts, shuddering into acceleration down the runway, and Gokudera gasps a breath, his attention coming back all at once as if the motion was a switch flipping. He looks out the window, looks at his arm where his sleeve is covering the bandage; then he looks at Yamamoto, and Yamamoto can’t tell if it’s the plane leaving the ground or the disbelieving hope in Gokudera’s eyes that makes his stomach drop into weightlessness.


	37. Answer

Yamamoto falls asleep sometime during the sixth hour of the flight. He wasn’t planning on it, didn’t expect to be tired enough to sleep until far later in his internal sense of the day, but between the lack of rest over the past few days, the excess of stress throughout this morning, and the strange recycled-air boredom of the inside of the plane, it’s barely afternoon by his sense of time when Gokudera growls, “Just take a nap, your yawning is driving me crazy,” and grabs at his shoulder to urge him down over the other’s lap. Sleep sounds good, lying in Gokudera’s lap sounds even better, and Yamamoto doesn’t offer the least resistance before tipping himself sideways to make a pillow of the tight-fitting denim of Gokudera’s borrowed jeans. Gokudera grumbles something, too softly for Yamamoto to hear, but his arm falls with forced casualness over Yamamoto’s waist, his fingers curling in under the hem of the dark jacket, and when Yamamoto drifts into sleep it’s with a smile on his face.

He wakes to fingers in his hair and the sound of voices.

“And then what?” Gokudera is saying, the rough edge to his words entirely at odds with the dip of his fingers stroking through Yamamoto’s hair. “Are we out on the streets of Italy as soon as we land?”

“It’s better than the streets of Japan,” a woman’s voice answers; it must be Bianchi, returned from the cockpit where she was when Yamamoto slid into unconsciousness. “You don’t need to worry about dodging Scanners once we land. But no, you’ll have a place to stay until you’re both on your feet.”

“With _you_?” Gokudera manages to make the question into an insult, painting a bite onto the question that makes Yamamoto flinch, although he doesn’t open his eyes.

“Of course not with me,” Bianchi says, voice smooth like she hasn’t even heard Gokudera’s tone. “Reborn and I value our privacy, and I have too much to do to babysit a pair of refugees. We have a house set up for newcomers to stay in for a few weeks; there may be a few others staying there, but you should at least have a room of your own. It’s convenient that you can share one between you, that will ensure you have your own space.”

There’s a pause. Yamamoto’s eyes are still shut; Gokudera’s fingers feathering through his hair are remarkably gentle, the friction spilling comfort over the other’s skin when his touch wanders to the back of Yamamoto’s neck. It’s hard to believe this is reality and not some half-formed dream, even with the pressure of unfamiliar clothes and the whirr of the plane’s engines to offer proof.

“Why are you doing this?” Gokudera asks finally, low enough it takes Yamamoto a moment to place the gruffness in his voice as confusion instead of irritation. “None of you know us. Why are you _helping_ us?”

Bianchi is very quiet for a moment. Gokudera’s fingers are pressing in harder against Yamamoto’s scalp, like he’s trying to hold onto the other without halting the soothing rhythm of his motion.

“You don’t trust people easily, do you?” she asks finally.

“Why should I?” Gokudera snaps, voice adopting some of the defensive aggression Yamamoto is used to seeing from across a desk at the Bureau, from over the width of the training room. “I do just fine on my own.”

“Everyone needs people they can trust.” Bianchi sounds a little bit sad, a little bit tender; her tone makes the words sound private, like maybe she’s forgotten she’s speaking to a relative stranger. “I’m glad you have him, at least.”

With his eyes shut, Yamamoto can’t see where Bianchi is looking. He doesn’t need to. The way Gokudera’s fingers tighten against his hair makes the subject of the conversation perfectly clear without the assistance of vision.  
“Shut up,” Gokudera grates. Yamamoto can feel the tension collecting along his spine and flexing into stress in his legs. “You don’t know anything about us.”

“Love is important,” Bianchi says, as smoothly as if she hasn’t heard Gokudera’s protest.

“This has _nothing_ \--”

“You _do_ love him, don’t you?”

Gokudera goes immediately silent. His hand in Yamamoto’s hair goes tight, loosens, slides down an inch. Yamamoto can feel the friction all down his spine, the tenderness of Gokudera’s touch answer enough to turn him warm and bright with the awareness.

“Shut up,” Gokudera says again, carefully this time. His fingers shift against Yamamoto’s neck, bracing wide and possessive against the other’s shoulder. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“That’s what I thought,” Bianchi says, sounding more pleased than smug. “You’ll be okay. Both of you.”

“You’re as bad as that fucking doctor,” Gokudera growls, but he’s relaxing, a little of the strain in his limbs easing.

There’s a faint laugh, then: “I’m going back up front with Reborn. Try to behave yourselves for the last few hours before we land.”

“We’re _fine_ ,” Gokudera snaps, but either Bianchi doesn’t bother answering or she’s gone already; there’s no response Yamamoto can hear, and after a minute Gokudera leans back in his seat, the shift undoing what tension was left in him.

Yamamoto waits another few minutes before he moves, turning over to fit an arm around Gokudera’s waist so he can press his face against the other’s shirt and breathe against the radiant heat of his body. The movement gets him a grumble, an arm around his waist and the other settling back into his hair, and then they both fall silent for a moment, Yamamoto listening to the pace of Gokudera’s breathing against him and Gokudera idly pressing his fingers against Yamamoto’s scalp.

“Were you awake?” he asks finally, voice strained around too much emotion for Yamamoto to identify.

“Mm,” Yamamoto doesn’t respond. Gokudera doesn’t ask again, just huffs a sigh and digs his fingers in against the back of Yamamoto’s neck.

Yamamoto’s pretty sure he knows the answer, anyway.


	38. Air

“This is where I’ll be leaving you,” Bianchi says as she leads the way around a corner and down a cobblestone street. The burble of foreign speech fades as they retreat from the main road; it’s something of a relief, Yamamoto finds, to have just Bianchi’s smooth enunciation of a familiar language to listen to. He’s already feeling disoriented by the unfamiliar streets, by the too-bright buildings; everything is white and gold, cast into evening glow by the sun, nothing at all he can recognize except for Gokudera’s scowl at his side and the dig of fingers against his wrist, like he might wander off and be lost if Gokudera lets him go.

Bianchi turns back to glance at them, to make sure they’re still with her before she turns off the street to climb the steps of a house tucked into the shadows, its street-facing facade both smaller and cleaner than Yamamoto was imagining. “Lancia will take care of you,” she says as she tosses her hair back and reaches out to rap a clean burst of sound over the door. “He’s a better man than anyone should be.”

The door opens almost as she’s still speaking. There’s a man inside the doorway, tall and broad in the shoulders, with the heavy weight of dark hair falling to the collar of his shirt. He looks at Bianchi, looks out to the street where Yamamoto and Gokudera are lingering at the foot of the stairs; there’s no reaction in the dark of his gaze, either judgment or welcome, before he looks back to Bianchi. “The newcomers?”

“That’s them.” Bianchi waves a hand, even the casual motion as elegant as if it’s a dance. “The tall one’s Yamamoto Takeshi, the silver hair’s Gokudera Hayato.”

“Any Italian?” Lancia asks her.

Bianchi shakes her head. “Sorry, not this time. Hayato’s fresh from the facility too, he’s probably going to need some time to adjust.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” Gokudera snaps, his fingers twisting hard against Yamamoto’s wrist, but Bianchi ignores him as if he hadn’t spoken at all, as if she’s forgotten he’s there.

“Lal helped us past the entry point at the airport, but we’re going to need to get them some kind of identification before they can start any kind of work. I’ll have Verde send the documents over as soon as he’s done with them.”

Lancia nods. “I’ll look out for them,” he says, and then Bianchi’s stepping aside and Lancia’s looking back out and gesturing at them. “Come in.”

Yamamoto moves first, while Gokudera is still scowling at the man silhouetted in the doorway like he’s questioning his trustworthiness. It’s easy to turn Gokudera’s hold on his wrist into a tug, easy to urge the other up the stairs behind him, and Yamamoto is offering a smile while Gokudera is still stumbling up the steps and growling some kind of unformed threat at him for his sudden movement.

“Nice to meet you,” Yamamoto offers, extending the hand Gokudera hasn’t laid claim to. Up close he can see the tracery of a pair of scars across Lancia’s face, two parallel lines running from his cheek down to his jaw. He can see the surprising softness in his dark eyes, too, the unspoken welcome that comes even before the other man reaches out to close an obviously strong grip carefully around Yamamoto’s fingers.

“Welcome to Italy,” Lancia says, offering a nod to Gokudera that Yamamoto is very sure earns him nothing but a scowl in return. Lancia lets Yamamoto’s hand go, steps aside to gesture to the interior of the house. “Come in, I’ll show you around.”

“Good luck,” Bianchi says. When Yamamoto looks back she’s smiling, a soft secret expression that warms the color of her eyes into something almost maternal. “I’ll see you later.”

“Thanks,” Yamamoto offers. After a moment Gokudera echoes him, softer and gruffer but audible nonetheless; Bianchi’s smile deepens, she lifts her hand in a wave, and then she’s leaving, heading down the steps and back towards the street before Yamamoto and Gokudera are yet inside the house.

“We don’t have too much here,” Lancia says as he pushes the door shut and leads the way down the hallway from the entryway. “There’s a bathroom in there--” a gesture of his hand, a glimpse of clean white tile and a heap of towels, “and a kitchen back in the other direction, though there’s not really room for more than one person to be cooking at a time. We kept most of the space for bedrooms.” He pauses, pushes open a door to a room with a neatly-made bed and the outline of a suit hung carefully over the back of a chair. “This is me, unless we’re really full. Right now it’s just you two, until Bianchi brings by someone new.”

“How many do you usually have?” Yamamoto asks, because he’s curious, and because it helps offset the strained edge of distrust radiating from Gokudera’s hunched shoulders.

Lancia lets the door fall shut again and continues down the hallway. “One or two, most of the time. Once we got all the way up to eight, which put me on the floor; we only have beds for six, plus the couch out in the main room. But that won’t be a problem for you two. You’ve got your choice of the place.” They’re heading towards a door at the end of the hallway; Lancia reaches for the handle and pushes the door open into a room so bright with sunlight Yamamoto has to squint against the burn for a moment.

“There’s another few rooms in the middle of the house,” Lancia says as Yamamoto blinks sunspots from his eyes to see a room no bigger than the one they shared at Shamal’s place, with a slightly larger bed to take up most of the floorspace. “This one’s kind of small for two, but Bianchi said you wouldn’t mind sharing.”

“It’s fine,” Yamamoto says, politeness easing his speech and relief sagging his shoulders. “Wherever you have room is perfect.”

“You can take one of the others instead if you’d like,” Lancia says, moving to let the door shut and taking another step down the hall. “This one’s nice because of the window, but the other two have quite a bit more space.”

“We want this one,” Gokudera says suddenly and so loudly Yamamoto nearly jumps at the sound. When he looks back Gokudera’s features are cast into illumination by the sunlight, the orange of oncoming sunset turning his hair and skin golden and warm.

“Okay,” Lancia capitulates, stepping aside with a gesture to usher them inside. Gokudera moves immediately, even dropping Yamamoto’s hand as he steps forward; Yamamoto starts to follow before hesitating to look back at the soft dark of Lancia’s stare.

“Thank you,” he says, careful with sincerity on the words. “For everything you’ve all done for us.”

Lancia’s smile is slow and wide. It eases the heavy-browed tension in his face, turns the shadow of his eyes into something comforting, and when he ducks his head he looks almost shy, young enough that Yamamoto mentally revises his estimate of the other’s age by almost a decade.

“I know what it’s like,” he says towards the floor. “I was held for almost a year in one of the holding facilities during a visit. It was a miracle that therapy lowered my Coefficient enough for me to make it back home to Italy.” He’s still smiling when he looks back up, gaze jumping from Yamamoto to where Gokudera is pushing the window open with a creak of metal rusted with disuse. “I want to do what I can to help anyone who wants to get out.”

“Right,” Yamamoto says, and then again: “Thank you.”

Lancia shakes his head, waves away the thanks like he doesn’t want to hear it. “I’ll start something for dinner,” he says. “The jetlag will be rough the first few days, but food and some rest will help. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.” He moves softly down the hall; Yamamoto can barely hear the sound of his footsteps against the wood floor, even watching him move away. Then a rustle of wind catches his skin, a breeze gusting in through the window, and when he looks back the light on Gokudera’s hair is enough to scatter all his other thoughts.

It’s only a few steps to the window, it’s an unthinking instinct to fit his arm around Gokudera’s waist. Gokudera glances back at him at the contact, growls something incoherent and faintly irritated, but he leans back when Yamamoto ducks his head to press his mouth to the other’s shoulder, to breathe in a lungful of Italian air off Gokudera’s skin.

“I want a cigarette,” Gokudera growls without turning around.

Yamamoto’s throat catches on a laugh that he doesn’t try to form into coherency. When he tightens his hold Gokudera doesn’t protest, just drops a hand from the windowsill to curl his fingers tight against Yamamoto’s wrist.

The sunlight is warm against their skin.


	39. Unapologetic

“I can’t believe that you found a job before me,” Gokudera says without turning away from the window. He has a cigarette pinned between his fingers, held out over the open sill so most of the smoke is carried off by the breeze, but Yamamoto hasn’t seen him bring it to his lips since he came back in from work; it’s just been slowly burning itself out while Gokudera’s gaze lingers against the backs of the adjacent houses.

Yamamoto can hardly blame Gokudera for his distraction. He’s been sitting on the edge of the bed trying to change out of his crisp-new work uniform for nearly fifteen minutes with minimal success; Gokudera has his hair tied up, the curling ends of silver skimming the back of his neck instead of covering it, and Yamamoto’s attention keeps wandering away from the ties on his apron and sticking instead against the pale curve of Gokudera’s neck, against the saturated red of the t-shirt against his shoulders so casual it looks almost indecent to Yamamoto’s eyes.

“I got lucky,” Yamamoto finally manages, a vague attempt at coherency as he drags the apron off over his head without even attempting the knots anymore.

Gokudera huffs with a little irritation and mostly amusement. “You don’t even speak Italian yet,” he says, glancing over his shoulder to catch Yamamoto’s gaze trailing over his skin. He doesn’t protest, just angles his fingers to flick ash off the end of his cigarette as his mouth goes tight on the threat of a smile.

“All they want is for me to smile and make sushi,” Yamamoto says. “I don’t need to speak Italian to do that.”

Gokudera does smile, then, a wry quirk of his lips that sparks light into the green of his eyes. Yamamoto sees that more and more recently, and more and more when he’s not expecting it; it makes his heart flutter, twists heat out into his veins like sunshine. Gokudera’s eyes drag over him, pick out the logo of the restaurant printed across the shoulders of Yamamoto’s shirt, and his smile turns itself into a grimace before he turns back towards the window.

“Take that off,” he says, weighting the words with distaste. “That’s the ugliest logo design I’ve ever seen.”

Yamamoto doesn’t see what’s wrong with it -- he kind of likes it, in truth -- but he’s not about to protest Gokudera telling him to take his clothes off. He’s halfway through stripping it over his head when Gokudera says contemplatively, “You should probably shut the door too.”

Yamamoto emerges from his shirt, glances over at Gokudera. The other is staring out the window again, his shoulders slumped in what would probably be a convincing imitation of boredom to someone who hadn’t spent months watching that exact same impression over a desk or across a room at the Public Safety Bureau. Yamamoto smiles, feeling the tingle of anticipation purr into his veins, and stretches out to toe the door shut.

“Do you want me to put on anything else?” he asks as the latch clicks.

“Your clothes are appalling,” Gokudera informs him. He’s playing with his half-burnt cigarette as Yamamoto gets to his feet and comes up behind him, staring at the glow of the ember as Yamamoto reaches out for the hem of his red t-shirt and fits his fingers in carefully under the edge. “Nothing else you have is any _better_.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto agrees without even an attempt at protest. His fingers fit in against Gokudera’s waist, his head dips towards the pale of his neck. “Sorry.”

“You’re not,” Gokudera says. He tips his head forward to let Yamamoto kiss against the back of his neck, just above his shirt collar; Yamamoto can feel Gokudera’s shuddery sigh of reaction under the press of his fingers against the other’s waist. Gokudera sets his cigarette down, balancing it against the windowsill. “You’re never sorry for anything.”

“Mm.” Yamamoto isn’t really paying attention to the meaning of Gokudera’s words; the bite on them is enough, the growling irritation that sounds more put-on every day, that and the way he’s turning against Yamamoto’s hold, his attention drawing away from the window at last to light sun-bright eyes against Yamamoto’s face.

“You’re ridiculous,” Gokudera says, and reaches up to twist his hand into Yamamoto’s hair and pull him down into a kiss. He’s slow about it, thorough and lingering in the way that shivers pleasure all up Yamamoto’s spine; it feels strange still just to have Gokudera against him, to have the steady thud of his heartbeat pressing against Yamamoto’s chest, and stranger still to have the time, the _safety_ to pull their contact long and unhurried. Gokudera tastes like coffee, the bitter black variety he started drinking again as soon as he could get his hands on it; the bite of the smoke curling itself into the room is faint, clinging more to his hair than to his mouth.  
“Do you want to finish your cigarette first?” Yamamoto asks hazily when Gokudera draws back to catch his breath. Gokudera’s hands are pressing up against the line of his back, his fingertips dragging over skin like he’s trying to bruise his touch into Yamamoto’s shoulders; Yamamoto just leans in closer under the force, until he’s so near there’s not even space for his hands to fit underneath Gokudera’s shirt to press over the heat of his skin.

“It’s no good,” Gokudera tells him, curling his fingers in against Yamamoto’s shoulder and fitting his thumb into the dip of the other’s collarbone. “I can’t find my brand here, and everything I _can_ find is awful.”

“Oh,” Yamamoto says, breathless at the way the sunlight from the window is turning Gokudera’s hair bright. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” Gokudera growls, and pushes at his shoulder; Yamamoto drops easily, his knees folding like his whole body is melting into submission. His hands slip down from Gokudera’s waist to the narrow curve of his hips instead, catch at the black denim of the tight jeans he’s taken to wearing nearly every day, much to Yamamoto’s distraction. “It’s your fault.” Gokudera shifts, spreads his legs wide and reaches for Yamamoto’s hair; his fingers settle against the strands, ruffle the dark locks into a tangle like he’s making space for himself to press against Yamamoto’s skin. “You’ll have to make it up to me.”

“Right,” Yamamoto says, trying to resist the urge to look up to see the shine off Gokudera’s hair, to see the glow of his eyes, to see the edge of his smile. It’s more distraction than he really wants right now, not when he has his fingers working Gokudera’s belt and jeans open so he can drag the concealing fabric off the other’s body. Gokudera doesn’t say anything, protest or encouragement either one, but his fingers are gliding through Yamamoto’s hair, stroking friction out over his scalp that feels like the affection he leaves unspoken. Yamamoto ducks his head to the movement, groaning something faint and purring itself into pleasure, and then he’s got Gokudera’s clothes open, can look up to see the flushed weight of Gokudera’s cock burning underneath the touch of his fingers. He tightens his hold for a moment, strokes up a single testing movement, and Gokudera sighs over him and leans back to let his weight sag against the wall.

“I might as well quit,” Gokudera says, his voice trembling itself out of the casual tone he’s attempting. He’s hot against Yamamoto’s fingers, the resistance of him enough to send a shudder of secondhand reaction down Yamamoto’s spine and remind him of the aching heat collecting low in his stomach. “No point in smoking cigarettes I don’t even enjoy.”

“Yeah,” Yamamoto agrees, not even sure what he’s saying anymore, and leans in to press his lips in and around the head of Gokudera’s cock. Gokudera jerks at the wall, thighs flexing to arch him forward and thrust him into Yamamoto’s mouth, and Yamamoto hums around the pressure at his lips, purrs at the weight on his tongue.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Gokudera gasps. His hands are fists, now, dragging against Yamamoto’s hair to pull him in, and Yamamoto is moving as fast as they tug, taking Gokudera far back in his mouth as he can go. His spine is crackling with electricity, the salt of Gokudera’s skin is catching bitter at his lips and against his mouth, and he doesn’t want to pull away, doesn’t want to lose the anxious heat that’s arching Gokudera off the wall and closer to him.

“Jesus,” Gokudera gasps as Yamamoto finally draws back, slow and dragging with his tongue before he ducks back in to slide sensation over the other’s length. “Did you take fucking _lessons_ or something?”

Yamamoto has to pull away, then, to spill a laugh that rumbles itself into something hot and silky in his chest. When he looks up Gokudera’s staring at him, his eyes blown dark and lips parted on the shape of his breathing.

“Just visualization,” he says, and licks the salt off his lips. Gokudera’s eyelashes flutter, his cock twitching hard against the bracing hold of Yamamoto’s fingers at the base.

“Yeah?” He tugs at Yamamoto’s hair again, pulls him in closer; Yamamoto opens his mouth obediently, licks hard against the head of Gokudera’s cock before taking him farther back over the heat of his tongue. “You spent a lot of time thinking about sucking my cock?”

“Mm,” Yamamoto hums, because he can’t form the words to say _every day_ coherently.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, bracing his hands in Yamamoto’s hair and tilting his hips up off the wall. Yamamoto goes still, lets Gokudera’s movement slide the other’s cock in past his lips and dragging over his tongue; his skin is on fire, his body aching and trembling like he’s the one pressing against Gokudera’s throat instead of the other way around. “ _Fuck_ , that’s--” He’s going hotter, Yamamoto can feel the burn against his tongue, and then Yamamoto tips his head up, and Gokudera presses himself in closer, and the head of Gokudera’s cock slides against Yamamoto’s throat, cutting off the pattern of his breathing for a moment while Gokudera groans something hot and loud and unintelligible.

“You,” Gokudera gasps, and draws his hips back to thrust forward again. Yamamoto’s thoughts are going hazy, his vision blurring itself out-of-focus; all he’s paying attention to is the salt heat of Gokudera on his tongue, the sound of the other’s breathing coming faster with each thrust, the tension flexing through his legs and arching his spine. “You’re so _fucking_ unbelievable,” sounding wrecked and strained, and then he’s shuddering, come pulsing over Yamamoto’s tongue fast as Yamamoto can swallow and fingers tensing convulsively in the other’s hair. Yamamoto has to grab against Gokudera’s hips to keep him upright through the tremors, has to press him back to the wall to steady him, and for a minute they’re tangled together, the shake in Gokudera’s knees and the burn in Yamamoto’s throat a single shared existence.

“Oh,” Gokudera says, finally, and Yamamoto slides away, slow enough to suck Gokudera clean as he goes. Gokudera jerks at the sensation, a last shiver of reaction jolting through him, and then Yamamoto looks up to blink himself back into focus on the heat-dizzy stare Gokudera is giving him. He doesn’t know what he looks like; he feels lost, achy and satisfied and wanting all at the same time, and whatever it is in his face is enough for Gokudera to suck in a bracing inhale and push at him by the hold he has on Yamamoto’s hair.

“On the bed,” he says, the command in his tone only somewhat undermined by the too-warm thrum of his voice. It’s more than enough to win Yamamoto’s obedience, to persuade him to ease the hold he has at Gokudera’s hips in favor of stumbling to his feet so he can move to the bed. He works his jeans open while Gokudera is stripping his shirt over his head, is pushing the denim off his legs as Gokudera kicks his legs free of his own undone clothes, and by the time he’s dropping to sprawl over the width of the bed there’s nothing on either of them but the glow of the sunlight streaming through the open window.

“What are we going to do?” Yamamoto asks, curiosity striking itself aflame on the friction of heat in his veins. Gokudera is still a little unsteady on his feet, still looking dazed and dizzy with pleasure, but he musters an attempt at a glare as he reaches out to push Yamamoto down to the bed by his shoulder.

“You’ll see,” he says, and catches at the other’s idle hand to draw it to the heat of his cock. “Here, I’ll need my hands.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, curling his fingers in to press away the ache of desire under his skin. It’s not as electric as Gokudera’s fingers, not quite as breathtakingly novel as the slide of the other’s hand, but it’s familiar, the movement easy with years of practice, and Gokudera’s still there, moving towards the head of the bed in a smooth shift of pale limbs and bright hair without any indication of self-consciousness as he does. That’s enough all on its own, along with the sheen of light collecting over his shoulders and the salt taste of him clinging to Yamamoto’s tongue, and then Gokudera comes back to kneel against the foot of the bed and Yamamoto sees what he has in his hand.

“Oh,” he says, anticipation flooding tension into his veins. “Are you--”

“Quiet,” Gokudera snaps, sparing a glare in Yamamoto’s direction as he opens the bottle of lube and slicks his fingers with it. “Just stay there and be quiet.”

Yamamoto shuts his mouth. Gokudera’s setting the bottle aside, shifting his weight against the bed; Yamamoto watches the dip of his shoulder, tracks the movement of his thighs, and then Gokudera’s reaching behind himself and Yamamoto’s brain very abruptly catches up to what’s happening.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, sudden and startled. “Gokudera.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, his knees sliding wider as he braces himself. “I--” His expression tightens, his forehead creasing with some unseen effort, and Yamamoto’s entire body flushes hot at the thought of Gokudera pressing those elegant fingers inside himself, at the sight of the color that stains Gokudera’s cheeks. “ _Ah_.”

“You don’t have to,” Yamamoto says, though his voice is shaking itself into obvious desire that his words do very little to counteract. His thumb slides against the slick of precome, his cock tenses against the press of his fingers. “If you don’t want to.”

That gets him a glare, irritation set into Gokudera’s eyes over the rising flush in his cheeks. “If I wanted to be fucking you I’d be fucking you,” he says, growling the words into sincerity. “Do _you_ not want to?”

Yamamoto looks again at the angle of Gokudera’s arm, at the color in his cheeks, at the flush of his skin as he starts to go hard again.

“I want to,” he says, and he’s sitting up, he’s reaching out for Gokudera’s hip as his movement bumps his stomach against the slick head of his cock. “Gokudera, please, I want you.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, but he’s reaching for Yamamoto’s hair, bracing at the back of the other’s neck while he eases his fingers free. “Don’t say that like it’s some big revelation.”

“I love you,” Yamamoto says, coherency failing as Gokudera moves in to straddle his hips and presses himself in close against Yamamoto’s chest. He’s very hot to the touch; Yamamoto can feel the arch of his spine as he balances himself, as he reaches down to tangle his fingers with Yamamoto’s into a bracing hold against the other’s length. “Gokudera, I love you.”

“Shut up,” Gokudera says, and lets himself down. It’s a slow movement, Yamamoto thinks, the slide of Gokudera pressing down onto him, but it’s hard to tell; his chest tenses against the friction, the air rushing out of his lungs in a long shivering groan, and Gokudera is drawing back up, easing down again until his hips are flush with Yamamoto’s, and Yamamoto’s head is spinning, he can’t breathe and everything is hot and glowing around him.

“God,” he gasps into the haze of his vision, ducking his head forward against Gokudera’s shoulder. “ _God_.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Gokudera says, but his voice is warm and his touch is gentle; when he moves it’s an easy rhythm, deceptively slow for the starbursts of friction the action sends shocking up Yamamoto’s spine. “I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Yamamoto says, breathing in hard against the salt-smoke of Gokudera’s shoulder, feeling the heat at the other’s skin pouring down his throat like he’s swallowing sunlight. “I’m sorry.”

A laugh, a spill of sound warm with sincerity against his ear. “No you’re not,” Gokudera says, and tilts his hips forward so Yamamoto’s brain short-circuits. He doesn’t know what sound he makes; it’s shattered in his throat, almost a wail at his lips, and Gokudera’s still moving, each shift of his hips sliding the heat of his body around Yamamoto’s cock until he can’t think enough even to find words.

“Yamamoto,” Gokudera breathes, hot against his ear, and Yamamoto shudders, his hands tightening at Gokudera’s hips like he’s trying to hold himself to reality. Lips brush his skin, Gokudera kissing against the side of his throat, and then “ _Takeshi_ ,” his name layered into something sultry and purring, and Yamamoto’s world goes white and hot and endless. His hips tilt up, Gokudera slides down against him, and the heat washes over him, waves of pleasure cresting and breaking over him while he breathes Gokudera into his lungs, lets his body quiver itself into something bright and warm and blissful.

Gokudera moves before Yamamoto has thought about letting him go, slides up and away with a hiss of not-quite pain as he moves. Yamamoto blinks, drawing himself back into reality with an effort, and it’s only as Gokudera is turning to climb off the bed that Yamamoto reaches out to catch at his waist and pull him back.

“Not yet,” he says, and Gokudera is turning back to him, letting himself be urged to tip pale and silver and perfect over the sheets. “You’re still hard.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes. “That’s a terrible reason,” he says, like he’s not trailing his fingers against the sweat-slick damp of Yamamoto’s chest, like he doesn’t arch up to meet Yamamoto’s hand when the other braces his fingers into a hold against the burn of his cock. “We’ll be here all day.”

“Mm,” Yamamoto hums, pleased and satisfied and tingling with affection. “I don’t mind.”

“Jesus,” Gokudera growls, his hips tilting off the bed to thrust against the slow stroke of Yamamoto’s hand. His eyelashes flutter over the dark of his eyes, his arm comes up to tilt over his face so all Yamamoto can see is the part of his lips. “Fine, it’s not like I’m going to stop you.”

Yamamoto smiles and leans in to kiss against the flutter of breathing in Gokudera’s chest. It’s easy to find a pace for his hand, to settle his fingers into a grip as he strokes; Gokudera breathes in time with his movements, his inhales coming faster as Yamamoto pulls up over him like they’re following the pattern of some unheard metronome. His spine arches, his legs tense, but his mouth is going taut even as his cock flushes harder, the soft of his inhales giving way to the concentration of a frown as Yamamoto continues.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, spitting the word around the strain Yamamoto can hear catching in his throat. “It’s too soon, I can’t--more, Yamamoto, _fuck_.”

“Faster?” Yamamoto guesses, but Gokudera hisses, drops his hand from his face to reach down for Yamamoto’s hold at his hip instead.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, and he’s urging the other’s hand between the tremble of his thighs, and Yamamoto gets the hint just as his fingers slip against another spill of precome and Gokudera arches again, jaw tensing on a groan like he’s trying to bite the sound back. Yamamoto looks down at what he’s doing, fits his fingers in against Gokudera, and pushes inside faster than he intends, the movement made slick and sticky with his come. It makes him groan, makes Gokudera shudder, and then he’s got a pair of fingers inside the other and he can’t think straight for the heat of Gokudera pressing around him.

“More,” Gokudera gasps, “Fuck, _more_ ” and Yamamoto pushes in harder, as deep as he can reach, watches Gokudera’s back arch and cock twitch with the motion. He’s arcing off the sheets, his body straining with the effort until Yamamoto can see _almost_ written in every curve of his body, can hear anticipation sticking his breathing.

“ _Takeshi_ ,” Gokudera grates, a plea and a moan and a growl all at once, and Yamamoto presses his fingers in inside him, strokes his grip up over him, and Gokudera collapses all at once, offering a long breathless groan as his cock pulses heat over Yamamoto’s hold. Yamamoto can feel the ripples of sensation running through Gokudera, can feel the tension tightening against his fingers with each shudder, and he can’t look away and he can’t move and he can’t blink, can’t do anything at all but stare at Gokudera’s face and watch the shudders of reaction wash over him more and more slowly until they fade to calm relief.

There’s a pause, enough time for Gokudera to take a long, deep breath as Yamamoto slides his fingers free and eases his sticky hold; then he opens his eyes and blinks himself into focus on Yamamoto’s face. He looks like he’s melted over the sheets, no trace anywhere in him of the stress Yamamoto has come to consider as natural, and Yamamoto can feel affection like an ache in his chest, pressing itself against the inside of his ribs like it’s trying to force him bigger to make room.

“I love you so much,” he says, not because it helps but because it’s the only thing he can say with Gokudera’s eyes hazy-hot on him and Gokudera’s skin collecting the light across their bed.

Gokudera huffs a laugh, his mouth curving easily around the expression, and lifts a hand to grab at Yamamoto’s wrist. “Come here,” he says, though he doesn’t need to; Yamamoto is leaning down already, pressing in against the warmth at Gokudera’s shoulder and draping an arm around his waist. Their legs tangle together, fall into alignment without conscious thought, and when Yamamoto breathes in he can taste smoke and sunlight on his lips.

“I’m not sorry,” he says against Gokudera’s hair, the only familiar thing in the entire room. A long inhale, warmth spreading wide in his chest, tension at his arm to hold Gokudera closer. “For anything.”

A hand lands in his hair, fingers fitting into the strands; it would be a stroke, in other circumstances, or maybe a tug, but right now it’s just weight, Gokudera too limp with exhaustion to manage anything but the press of contact.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’d better not be.”


	40. Sunlight

Of all the ways there are to wake up, Yamamoto likes Gokudera’s method best.

“Hayato,” he gasps against the sheets, his fingers tangling on the blankets in a completely futile attempt to brace himself in place. “ _Hayato_.”

“Can’t you say anything else?” Gokudera asks. Yamamoto doesn’t have to see his face to hear the smirk at his lips, but he looks back anyway, gasping heat over his shoulder as Gokudera thrusts into him in one smooth stroke. “I thought you had a bigger vocabulary than my name.”

Yamamoto laughs, the sound shaking through his shoulders and undoing what frail traction he’s managed to win on the sheets. “I do,” he says, pushing himself up on an elbow so he can see the way Gokudera’s eyes go dark at the curve of his back, so he can hear the purr of satisfaction at Gokudera’s mouth as he pushes as deep into the other as he can go. Yamamoto’s skin burns itself into heat, his spine shudders with the tension, and for a moment all he can do is breathe, gasping for air like everything around him has gone thin and unreal. “You didn’t let me wake up.”

“You’re too _warm_ ,” Gokudera growls, as if this is something Yamamoto has any control over. “I didn’t want to wait.” He draws back, slides himself forward with the particular tilt of his hips that undoes Yamamoto’s vision, that sends him collapsing to the bed to gasp heat against the sheets. “Are you complaining, Takeshi?”

“No,” Yamamoto pants, all his skin tingling warm and electric. “No, this is good.”

“Yeah,” Gokudera says, and thrusts forward again. Yamamoto can feel the fingers braced at his hips tensing, can feel the force of Gokudera’s arms dragging him back so they’re closer even than they were. “That’s what I thought.” He’s falling into a rhythm, taking a series of long sure thrusts that push gasping moans up out of Yamamoto’s throat with each movement, and Yamamoto is having trouble thinking, can’t even pay attention to the sound of Gokudera’s voice to tell if it’s growled pleasure or coherent words at his lips. Everything is dreamy-warm, delirious with the friction of Gokudera moving inside him, until his orgasm is startling, pressing itself into the arch of his body before he’s expecting it. There’s sound in his throat, Gokudera’s name spilling over his tongue as he trembles against the bed, and he sounds overheated and feels more so, even the pattern of his breathing coming strainingly hard in his chest.

“Fuck,” Gokudera says, the words sounding from a great distance, “Fuck, _Takeshi_ ” and his movement stutters into a groan, the last trembling motions of his hips sliding himself through the pulses of heat as he comes. It makes Yamamoto shudder again, his whole body going heavy and boneless against the sheets, until even Gokudera sliding out of him isn’t enough to draw more than a sigh at the loss. The hands at his hips loosen, slide into a momentary caress, and then there are fingers in Yamamoto’s hair, a gentle touch stroking through the dark strands and curling against the back of his neck while he arches and hums at the friction.

“You’re all sticky,” Gokudera observes, sounding breathless and warm and satisfied. It makes Yamamoto smile against the sheets as he turns his head to encourage the slide of Gokudera’s touch over his shoulder and against the line of his back. “Aren’t you at least going to take a shower?”

“In a minute,” Yamamoto says. He’s not completely sure he can manage to stay on his feet at the present moment.

“You’re getting the sheets filthy,” Gokudera sighs, but he’s moving away without further protest, leaving Yamamoto to sprawl across the blankets while coherency slowly reforms itself in his thoughts.  
“We’ll need to wash them anyway,” Yamamoto declares, tipping his head up so he can open his eyes and catch the way Gokudera is looking at him, his pale skin glowing with satisfaction and his eyes dark and soft and warm. Even seeing Yamamoto looking at him isn’t enough to startle away the smile at Gokudera’s mouth; it just widens, pulls into amusement for a moment before the other reaches out to ruffle Yamamoto’s hair and retreats to the bathroom himself.

Yamamoto isn’t sure how long he dozes over the warm sheets. It’s long enough for the sound of running water to splash itself to quiet, long enough that his limbs have gone stiff and faintly achy from the unexpected early-morning exercise when he finally sits up. The warmth of the shower is an allure even greater than Gokudera’s presence somewhere in the house; Yamamoto takes his time under the spray, rinses his hair to dripping and his skin to clean, and when he emerges from the bathroom to tug clothes over damp skin he’s feeling warm and sated and languid in a way only early weekend mornings can achieve.

The kitchen smells like coffee as he comes down the hallway. It’s still brewing on the counter, the timer on the side counting down for the last few minutes; Yamamoto lingers to watch it, retrieves a cup as the final seconds tick down, and pours it as full as he can manage without putting the liquid in danger of spilling. It’s only a few steps out to the balcony from there, where the door is still open to let a breeze ruffle through the house, and Gokudera glances back as Yamamoto emerges, looking completely unsurprised at the other’s appearance.

“He lives,” he says, eying the cup in Yamamoto’s hands as he straightens from the lean he was maintaining against the railing. “Give that to me.”

Yamamoto hands it over obediently. There’s no need for him to step any closer -- the balcony is just barely big enough for them both, hardly intended as anything more than a ledge for houseplants -- but he does anyway, fits his hip against dark jeans and his shoulder against blue t-shirt until he can breathe in the smell of Gokudera’s coffee when he inhales. From this close Yamamoto can see the shading of color in Gokudera’s hair, can see where the silver is sun-lightened to almost white in some places.

“You’re so beautiful,” Yamamoto says, dreamy like he’s still tangled in the sheets.

Gokudera glances up at him, raises an eyebrow over the edge of the coffee cup as he swallows what must be a blisteringly hot mouthful of liquid. “You’re insane,” he says succinctly.

“Mm.” Yamamoto reaches up, fits his fingers around the curve of Gokudera’s ear to tuck a strand of loose hair back into place. “I love you.”

“You’re never going to learn Italian if you insist on speaking Japanese with me,” Gokudera comments without looking away from his coffee. His cheeks are going darker, his blush giving away the words at his lips before he says them. “Te amo, idiota.”

“Te amo,” Yamamoto says obediently, the words coming easy with repetition in spite of the unfamiliarity of the language and the strange shapes the vowels make on his tongue. He leans in closer, presses his nose against Gokudera’s hair. “Tell me really, Hayato.”

Gokudera tips himself sideways, digging his shoulder hard against Yamamoto’s chest. “You’re an idiot,” he announces. “A too-tall embarrassing baseball idiot.” But he’s starting to smile, tension tugging at the corner of his mouth as Yamamoto presses a kiss to the edge of his forehead, and Yamamoto knows he’s won even before Gokudera works his arm free and looks up to press his fingers to Yamamoto’s jawline, to fit his thumb against the dip of the long-since healed scar at his chin.

“Idiot,” Gokudera informs him, attempting a glare that derails when his gaze falls to Yamamoto’s mouth, when his eyes adopt the affectionate shadows they show all the time, now. His mouth goes soft, his lips parting for just a moment as his cheeks flush hot, and Yamamoto is shutting his eyes even before Gokudera tips in to press their lips together. Gokudera tastes like the coffee still held in his other hand, rich and bitter and hot to the touch, and Yamamoto’s melting, reaching out to fit his hand at the other’s waist and settle his fingers up into silver hair before Gokudera pulls back to take a deliberate inhale.

“I love you,” he says, clear and careful in spite of the blush threatening all across his face.

Yamamoto smiles, pleasure filling up every inch of his existence and thudding out into his blood with every steady-slow beat of his heat, and leans in to kiss the coffee off Gokudera’s lips.


End file.
